Журнал

I've returned to my city, it's familiar in truth
To the tears, to the veins, swollen glands of my youth.
You are here once again, — quickly gulp in a trance
The fish oil of Leningrad's riverside lamps.
Recognize this December day spreading far,
Where an egg yolk is mixed with the sinister tar.
I'm not willing yet, Petersburg, to perish in slumber:
It is you who retains all my telephone numbers.
I have plenty of addresses, Petersburg, yet,
Where I'm certain to find the voice of the dead.
In the dark of the staircase, my temple is threshed
By the knocker ripped out along with the flesh.
All night long, I await my dear guests like before
As I shuffle the shackles of the chains on the door.