City of my Childhood
Far in the North, where the dark-eyed Neva River
Spills its cold waters, and a June day has no end,
The city of my childhood sprang up on the marsh.
I marvel at the white-and-green facades of the palaces,
And the golden domes of the churches,
Glistening against the cool sky.
Traversing each night the broad prospects, and vast plazas.
With one leap, overcoming the chasm under the drawbridge.
The riches of the age of the tsars added to their brilliance, their proud beauty.
The old capital of the empire never surrendered, never knelt down.
When fate reveals a magnanimous face.
I shall see the Maple, planted with a childish hand, reach the clouds.
I shall timidly peer into the windows of the house on Toreza Street.