Veins filled with sun — not blood —
On my hand, brown so soon.
I am at one with my great love
To own my soul.
I am waiting for a grasshopper, I count to a hundred,
Chewing a stalk's spine...
— Strange to feel so strongly and so simply
The fleetingness of life — and mine.
Солнцем жилки налиты — не кровью —
На руке, коричневой уже.
Я одна с моей большой любовью
К собственной моей душе.
Жду кузнечика, считаю до ста,
Стебелёк срываю и жую…
— Странно чувствовать так сильно и так просто
Мимолётность жизни — и свою.
«We live, deaf to the land beneath us, / Ten steps away no one hears our speeches, / All we hear is the Kremlin mountaineer, / The murderer and peasant-slayer. / His fingers are fat as grubs / And the words, final as lead weights, fall from his lips, / His cockroach whiskers leer / And ...»
«We live, but cannot feel the earth, / And if we speak, we can’t be heard. But wherever you hear a half-conversation, / They talk of that backwoods lout in the Kremlin. Ten fat fingers like greasy worms, / Each of his words weighs fifty pounds. His moustache bristles in cockroach laughter,...»
«Wait for me, I will come back. / Don’t give in to pain. / Wait, when everything goes black / Under heavy rain. Wait, when snow freezes heart, / Hides the world in haze. / Wait for me, we’re not apart / Till the end of days. Wait, when nothing gives you hope, / Nothing strengthens...»
«Wait for me until I’m back / Even if it’s hard. / Wait in spite of all impacts / And protect your hoping heart. Wait for me when blizzard blows, / Wait when it is scorching heat. / Fight with hopelessness sharp claws. / You must cope with it. Wait, when letters will not come / Fr...»