CRIMEAN NIGHTS

Ah, those nights! Those Crimean nights! Who dreamt them up? And why are they so blue, so clear? Why are they so intoxicating?
Ah, those nights! Those Crimean nights!
Just look what they are doing to the people!


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“Hey, girls! Lonely tonight?”
“Get lost, lamebrains!”
… And five minutes later, just five minutes of this magical Crimean night, and the girl’s head is resting against the lamebrain’s chest…
Soft voices… Hamstrings trembling… Hearts thumping… Blood boiling…
Ah, those nights! Those Crimean nights!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And what sounds you have, Crimean nights! What delicate fragrances! What stealthy rustling! And those songs of yours! Those magical southern songs!
Ah, apple so red,
Blossom all rosy!
He loves her dearly
She loves him not.
‘She’ doesn’t love him! But no matter! She’ll come round to love him. From a nearby bush or some cliff the blueness of evening is disturbed by the words:
Oh, why was the night
So beautiful then…
What songs! What marvellous southern songs! Such cypress melodies!
Bushes rustle, bushes whisper. And heads topped with ribbons nestle up to heads with none:
“What is likely to happen? What can happen?”
On the mountain Chatir Dag the demon stretches his hairy wings…
Intoxicated voices carry from the bushes:
“Ah, those sweet songs…!”
And the demon roars with laughter:
Those sweet songs?
Maybe all will come to naught,
Or maybe, maybe she’ll conceive…
Oh, those nights! Those Crimean nights!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Crimean night grows quiet. It darkens and turns serene…
And it breathes lightly…
Takes in the fresh Crimean air…
And the sea quietly laps at the shore…
The laurel trees are silent… The cypresses are silent…
The night has fallen asleep…
Black shadows ensnare the window… Silence fills the window…
Silence… silence…
Oh, those nights! Those Crimean nights!

29.05.1924