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.

In a dream-like longing, I return to the granite boulevards,

I marvel at the white-and-green facades of the palaces,

And the golden domes of the churches,

Glistening against the cool sky.

I hear clatter of horses’ hooves, and see a bronze horseman,

Traversing each night the broad prospects, and vast plazas.

With one leap, overcoming the chasm under the drawbridge.

I pass by elegant, French-style houses and gardens.

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.

I believe that I will return here once more,

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.

Alicja Kuberska