Velimir Khlebnikov
In periwinkle potion...

In periwinkle potion,
you earthworms, kindle
two watery rocks
in a black thread.
I'm a charred log
of obscure reputation;
it's not that I'm empty
or especially awful —
I'm just worn out,
I'm not hot anymore.
I sit here. Warm me.
Keep my face from moving
on the cliff of my shoulders,
but let the speech of someone's singing hands
awake my own hands' hearing.
For with this periwinkle water
I will find out at last —
did her scarf cut me off cold,
like winter leaving the land?

Translated by Paul Schmidt