Maybe you do draw
                seriously,
but not now, alas! Lines
form a grill,
and behind it—lions.

Lions. Their life is a diplomat’s,
they pose on their paws, their heads double.
With celerity of computer chess,
lions occupy cells with each cell.

They regard you on guard, but never—askance,
and stretch languorously, like crêpe.
They are tied to their feed, but also to belfries
far-off, shimmering over the Dnieper.

Lions go: “munch!”—overlooking its sunsets.
They disdain clover and dandelions.
Frothed-up bathtubs, where Marats sat—
O lions!

We’ll hide among church domes, as if among cabbages,
—in a convex mirror this city rose spherically—
and by St. Andrew’s slope
we’ll give those lions the slip.

Lions penciled in thickets and glades!
Their manes you’d curler with slate—
                but me,
with you I would drink, drink, and again,
with you I would sleep, sleep, sleep.