A Little After Three in the Morning
By Yuri Iofe
In the restaurants, it is already dark and resonant.
A little after three in the morning. The remaining drunks,
Are taxied to their homes.
And the night fog swallows them.
And in the very same manner as the dinner scraps are,
Swept away in the kitchen by a degraded lackey,
The militiamen sweep away the timeworn prostitutes,
From the deserted squares.
Where to go? The way has been forgotten.
It is a little after three in morning and everything is dead,
Except for a single car, spraying water from beneath its wheels,
Speeding off from the Kremlin to Lyubyanka.
Translated by me.