I’m trying to fit my destiny into
the eye of a needle, like a pony
into the tightly drawn square collar.
Yet it remains a zero, like a vent
sash. Only a geranium is screaming on
the windowsill, “intolerable.”
We survive by blank verse only.
The life is random, memory lives
only in words. The silence of the roads
hangs heavy. But I believe our inner square
where we’re keen will budge and the pony
will go capering again, all bitterness forgotten.
Translated by Max Nemtsov