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Poetry

My brain is like a millstone

In a mill long motionless

By the parched river,

Where the sloping riverbed gets steep.

If only I had a wing

The stones would start spinning,

But the One who created me

Made me to know only water.

And the wind melts, rushing past,

And the day melts, replaced by night,

And the night melts, replaced by morning,

And the eternal melts in me.

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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