by Vladislav Khodasevich1886-1939
He hung without swaying Thin belt on branch's bend. His hat - a black remainder Marred freshly combed sand. Left palm pierced by the nails, Of still yet stiffened hand. The sun ascended slowly For noon its horses set, He faced the morning Helios In somber tet-a-tet. The man with frozen eyelids - A risen silhouette. And focused, focused, focused His gaze was on the east. Below, a crowd gathered The voices hushed and triste. Slim belt almost obscured By early morning mist.