Я был только тем, чего ты касалась ладонью,...

I was just what
you touched your palm
over a deaf, crow
night inclined brow.

I was just what you
there, below, distinguished:
vague appearance first,
much later - features.

It's you, hot
oshuyu
ear conch
I worked, whispering.

This is you, fiddling
curtain into the wet cavity
mouth put a voice to me
who called you.

I was just blind.
You, appearing, hiding,
granted me to see.
So leave a mark.

So the worlds are created.
So, having made them, often
leave to rotate
lavishing gifts.

So, we throw something in the heat,
now in the cold, then in the light, then in the dark,
lost in the universe,
spinning ball.
I. Brodsky