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.