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Poetry

We have nothing, dear Lord.

Nothing has come to us,

Just this spare winter light.

Can we see our faces

There—still-wet, blurred-white

Pigment, as if, risen

From this our earth-prison,

Awaiting judgment’s word?

From the millstones of heaven

Snow-silence spills and spills.

Why must the shallow cup

Of this vale become so full?

 

Translated from the Russian by Philip Metres

All translated work in this issue is supported by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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