There are seven hills like seven bells,
seven bells, seven bell-towers. Every
one of the forty times forty churches, and the
seven hills of bells have been numbered.

On a day of bells I was born, it was
the golden day of John the Divine.
The house was gingerbread surrounded by
wattle-fence, and small churches with gold heads.

And I loved it, I loved the first ringing,
the nuns flowing towards Mass, and
the wailing in the stone, the heat of sleeping—
the sense of a soothsayer in the neighbouring house.

Come with me, people of Moscow, all of you,
Imbecile, thieving, flagellant mob!
And priest: stop my mouth up firmly
with Moscow which is a land of bells!