Korsakov

In a stone house and Galilean yard,
figs and pomegranates guard my window
from the barking of dogs
and vines are proud to give clusters of grapes,
to explode with pleasant-scent leaves,
and nothing has gone with the wind.

In a night among the summer nights
of the desert village,
now has ended this Sheherezade
of Korsakov.
Strange
to hear the true “Arabian Nights”

in Russian.

Translation by Karen Alkalay-Gut

Previously published in the Jerusalem Review