How The Sorcerer Married The Spring Poem by Vic Postnikov

On the way to a small wooden hut,
Little breeze in a grove takes a spurt,
Silver voice puts the Spring on alert.

Then she stood at the porch for a while,
And she sought for the door bells to chime;
Wouldn’t dare to ascend pretty smile.

And she’s gone to a bluish expanse
Where the thaw smoke arose in a dance
Where the sadness revolved in a trance
Where the aging and distant recluse
Bent an arch from a birch with no use;
Then he saw her and tried to seduce.

And he cried as he jumped on a tree:
- You, the beauty, must be looking for me!
- You are craving for someone to see!
So she took the crooked hand in her hand,
And the green beard entangled the friend,
And they flew like a fog o’er the land.

Now they pine o’er the same little thing,
Now they’re over the grove on a wing,
Now the Sorcerer married the Spring.


- Alexander Blok, 24 April 1905
- Transl. by VP,3 Feb,2009