Poems - Vera Pavlova.

                                             Vera Pavlova
               X X X

     The captain looked from the portrait
     From the unknown depths of the sea,
     And his velvet caftan
     In the light it sparkled,

     From under the brim of a wide hat
     A tired, intelligent look shone.
     Eagle nose, high forehead,
     There is restrained excitement in his movements.

     And gradually this look
     It attracted me with a strange force.
     The captain stands at the cannon
     In an old velvet uniform.

     The captain stands at the cannon,
     Squeezing the telescope,
     And the waves rub against the sides,
     And behind the canvas there is an empty wall.

                 X X X

     We'll meet at the far lane,
     Where even time melts like a candle,
     And where the wells are dusty and empty,
     Where the burnt forests stretch.

     We will meet, perhaps, on the mountain,
     Perhaps in a field or by a river.
     It will probably be at dawn,
     When your fangs are not so strong.

     When the chain mail of words is not so strong
     And the old excitement still lingers.
     And maybe the wolf, the last of the wolves,
     For a while, shed your forest attire.

     The spell will break like a thread.
     For a long moment the strip will melt,
     And then my sword, your fangs...
     Or maybe they'll just meet eyes.

              X X X

     Oh, those dances in the snow
     In the tangle of ghostly drifting snow,
     Only foretelling a blizzard
     On pieces of ice that are light and brittle.

     And onloose trail in the snowdrift,
     And the wind falling from the spruce,
     The trail that trails behind it,
     Torn from the snowstorm by a gust,

     And the reflection of the sparkle of the eyes
     In the eyes of a deserted friend.
     And the lynx curled up on the sheets,
     Catching shades of sound in silence.