translated by Renata Gorcyzynski
Autumn is
always too early.
The
peonies are still blooming, bees
are still
working out ideal states,
and the
cold bayonets of autumn
suddenly
glint in the fields and the wind
rages.
What is
its origin? Why should it destroy
dreams,
arbors, memories?
The alien
enters the hushed woods,
anger
advancing, insinuating plague;
woodsmoke,
the raucous howls
of
Tatars.
Autumn
rips away leaves, names,
fruit, it
covers the borders and paths,
extinguishes
lamps and tapers; young
autumn,
lips purpled, embraces
mortal creatures,
stealing
their
existence.
Sap
flows, sacrificed blood,
wine,
oil, wild rivers,
yellow
rivers swollen with corpses,
the curse
flowing on: mud, lava, avalanche,
gush.
Breathless
autumn, racing, blue
knives
glinting in her glance.
She
scythes names like herbs with her keen
sickle,
merciless in her blaze
and her
breath. Anonymous letter, terror,
Red Army.
 |
| (My severely sprained left ankle might as well be the Red Army.) |
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