Poem No. 228

Osip Mandelstam

1931

A Jewish musiker,
Alex Herzovitch,
wound his Schubert around and around
like diamonds.
Morning to night, happy, oh happy,
he ground out that same old
sonata, ground it by rote, ground it
to a crunch.
Well Alex Herzovitch,
it’s dark on the street . . .
Stop it, my Alex Scherzo-vitch,
who’s listening, who cares, why bother? . . .
Let some bell
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