Drowsily an aged pine
rustles in her sleep.
Leaning on her coarse-grained trunk
Here I stand and speak.
«little pine-tree, just my age,
Give me of your strength!
Not the usual nine months,
forty years I carried,
forty years I had been bearing,
forty years I had been begging,
begged my heart out, got by pleading,
brought to term
my soul.»
Дремлет старая сосна
И шумит со сна.
Я, к шершавому стволу
Прислонясь, стою.
— Сосенка-ровесница,
Передай мне силу!
Я не девять месяцев, —
Сорок лет носила,
Сорок лет вынашивала,
Сорок лет выпрашивала,
Вымолила, выпросила,
Выносила
Душу.
«Bo-beh-óh-bee is the lipsong / Veh-eh-óh-mee is the eyesong / Pee-eh-éh-oh is the eyebrowsong / Lee-eh-éh-ay is the looksong / Gzee-gzee-gzéh-oh is the chainsong / On the canvas of such correspondences / somewhere beyond all dimensions / the face has a life of its own.»
«People, years and nations / run away forever / like a flowing river. / In nature’s supple mirror / we’re the fish, / dark’s ghosts are gods, / and the constellations / knot night’s net.»
«A police station’s a fine place: / it’s where the State and I have trysts. / It’s where the State reminds me / that it still exists.»
«I, a butterfly that has flown / into the room of human life, / must leave the handwriting of my dust / like a prisoner’s signature / over the stern windows, / across fate’s strict panes. / The wallpaper of human life / is grey and sad. / And there is the windows’ / transparen...»