Natalka Bilotserkivets

I
These days we lived disappeared
into other days we also lived.
Greasy, bloody stains on a gravel path,
rain washed them away.

               A rustling of flags
no longer brings delight or hope,
only terrifying tanks on the Maidan
on a Monday afternoon.

Days we’ve survived, like grass
in our garden: ruddy yellow, brown.
Poor garden—a mad peahen
flying nowhere, squawking about nothing.
Autumn clangs as loudly as church bells
calling crowds of fools to flock
                                               in black,
red, blue—fliers drift from above
proclaiming new rules of the game.

II
Again, my allergy begins—
maybe to burning leaves, to the dry pollen
of chrysanthemums and last dahlias,
to the dying bunches of weeds,

                                                 or maybe it’s to that
ill-at-ease look of reed beds and bare meadows
wistful, overgrown in the village.
                                                 Yet, in the city

beggars hound the passageways
with drunk faces and runny noses.
And then there’s that tiny biting ant
born on shoes along the dirt to
apartments . . .
There’s one consolation:
it’ll live only until the first snow.

Conversations, queues, influenza,
the constant commotion at home,
the smell of fried onions
and shared laundry—
a child whines, the TV sings
about our freedom,
and the president flies to Minsk
in a yellow-blue plane.

The demagogues and the democrats
are all lazy and dumb—
and sometimes you want to puke
on their golden trousers,
on the gussied-up laws—
pathetic wares, glitter for sale.

Will we get to Washington?
Yes, we’ll get there someday.

III

I fear those who’ll come out of the caves
at the call of meat and circuses—I know
there’s blood there. If you must, smash
the computers or burn the library—
Better yet: all sheet music, violins,
pianos!
                      Oh what an orchestra
will play; and a light smile will
fall upon the bared teeth.
I fear those who’ll come out of the caves.
 
They have nothing to lose but their chains
of convention: “Please” and “thank you.”
“Good morning, sir.” “Good evening, ma’am.”
“After you.” “My pleasure.”
The fire’s already crackling,
the shadows dance and the Rostov sadist
sings, “Unharness your horses, lads.”

Life is simple and quiet, 

and I love it. 

Books surround me 

like grass in the grove.

Like chamomile 

to my lips, 

soothing and green, 

the word between words. 

You forget the lines smells colors and sounds
sight weakens       hearing fades       simple pleasures pass
you lift your face and hands toward your soul
but to high and unreachable summits it soars

what remains is only the depot       the last stop
the gray foam of goodbyes lathers and swells
already it washes over my naked palms
its awful sweet warmth seeps into my mouth
love alone remains though better off gone

in a provincial bed I cried till exhausted
through the window       a scraggly rose-colored lilac spied
the train moved on       spent lovers stared
at the dirty shelf heaving beneath your flesh
outside a depot’s spring passed       grew quiet

we’ll not die in Paris       I know now for sure
but in a sweat and tear-stained provincial bed
no one will serve us our cognac       I know
we won’t be saved by kisses
under the Pont Mirabeau murky circles won’t fade

too bitter we cried       abused nature
we loved too fiercely
                        our lovers shamed
too many poems we wrote
                        disregarding poets
they’ll not let us die in Paris
and the alluring water
                        under the Pont Mirabeau
will be encircled with barricades

Translated by Dzvinia Orlowsky