SERGEI DOVLATOV
recite:
They're on the wing, already flying,
Words of freedom and of love,
While I abide here in alarm,
With lips as cold as ice.
The woman slowed her step. She held her hands to her temples. Her
book, fluttering its pages, fell to the grass. Busch continued:
Beyond is a world abundant
Like sweet and scalded wine ...
My knowing was on fire
From a fragrant burning wind.
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The woman was silent. Her face expressed confusion and terror (if terror
can be ardent and joyful). Then, lowering her eyes, she quietly recalled
the lines:
But soon the scanty birches
Will brush against the panes,
While roses plait a crimson wreath
And voices echo from afar.
Busch stood up. "You like Akhmatova?"
"I
know all her poetry by heart," answered the
~oman.
"What a coincidence!
I
do too.... And flowers? Do you like
flowers?"
"They're my great weakness! And birds? How do you feel about
birds?"
Busch threw a glance at the black swans, paused, and recited:
o
seagull , circling in the sky
And robin red-breast fluttering by ...
o
dear heart! Would I were a bird
So I might from your hands be fed.
"Are you a poet?" asked the woman.
"I write a few lines now and then," replied Busch modestly.
It
was
getting chilly. The shadows from the linden trees grew longer. The wa-
