It was such a pearly, pink season
that we awoke and saw the winter.
We were roused, dipped into it our monitors,
our steamed-out motors.
The grandee stands, as if in reproach,
decks us in warm sheepskin,
pours the cold of hygiene over all,
drives blue glass into our veins.
And now it has sprawled out across the route,
blaming, reproving, rapping our knuckles.
The child’s cheeks have reddened, father sniffs.
Everything’s paralyzed by the beauty of the moment.
At night it howls so resplendently.
As if a tale were unfolding there,
evil crushing good, jingling, raging.
But good will triumph, since there’s no other option.
Say thank you for these tales,
for the penetrating, lengthy drone.
For sitting solid, like a clerk,
Like yellow glue on a dried-out edge,
and your gaze is unearthly, bewitched.
Translated by Daniel Weissbort