Only the Russians can comfort me

There's a lovely translation of a poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko up at Languor Management. I'm copying it here because it was the best thing about my bread factory Sunday.

Waiting

My love will come,
Will throw open her arms and fold me within them,
Will understand my fears, note my changes.
In from the pouring dark, from the pitch night
Without stopping to slam the taxi door
She’ll run upstairs, across the rotting porch,
Burning with love and love’s happiness,
She’ll run dripping upstairs, she won’t knock,
Will take my head in her hands,
And when she flings her coat on a chair,
It will slip to the floor in a blue heap.

Yevgeny Yevtushenko (translated by Kevin Kinsella)