The eyes of Serebryakova’s paintings Are captivating. They seem to speak, And everything becomes perfectly clear. Clear are: the tablecloth on the table, And the bedcover on the bed, Under-combed strands of her hair, The bracelet strewn with diamonds, And, the snowy, moonlike Whole self portrait, as simple as linen, Is clear. She’s 110 years now. In her jasmin tunic She’s standing at an arm’s length, And her youth is so bright, And her lips are ripe apple colored, And the early morning mark, And the hair shade on her collarbone As expressive as songs of orioles… How could one teach a canvas To look so vividly and affectionately? The answer is unknown for me. From two of the severed times, From two of the severed sides I’m staying on this one While she stays on the opposite one, And I’m adjusting as for the destiny For the impossibility to seize Her vivid beauty.