The Doors

A little bag in hand, she looks at me;
her slanting eyes, a bit surprised, stare me out.
Her golden rings of curls appear to be
like golden question marks, as signs of doubt.

Here is her house, lumpy, dark and all.
A house with a pompous sullen glare.
I never went inside, as far as I recall,
and never will, thank God, and I don't care.

Outside her door we say our good-byes;
she kisses me, caressing, - such a dear !
But there is something in her quiet eyes
that causes pain and sorrow, mixed with fear.

I can't suppress, nor drown my fear in wine !
I know her woman's tricky "golden virtue":
she'll kiss you tenderly, caress you like divine
then shut he door and right away forget you.

With time the doors have made me wise, of course.
They've taught me bitter lessons of a demon.
Many a time behind the either side of doors
I've been so artfully betrayed by women.

I hear music play. It's "sol-fa" scale, I gather...
Again some recollections fill my heart.
I know what you are like when we're together.
I wonder what you're like when we're apart.

1959

Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov
©Yevgeny Yevtushenko