Wednesday, January 15, 2020

Translated from Russian by Andrew Watchel

For the earth, what’s a body
but an excuse to cover
and hide leaves, snows
and forgetting beneath a veil?
Cease to be.

At dawn the birds cry
over every dying thing,
over ugliness and beauty.
At dawn they cry and dance.

O, heart, why do you kneel?
As if begging for alms.
You’ll be burned, your ash scattered,
no one will remember you.

And my heart responds:
“A burn from your shoulder remains
on my shoulder.”
An alien heart, the sun growing cold.

Wednesday, January 15, 2020