In a grass icon I’ll find you,
in a sticky whisper of juvenile maples,
the sun's shining through them.
I am almost tempted to ask the world of the dusk:
are you still here?
But a redolent silence
is dancing barefoot on a warm sand in response,
with a blue ribbon of wind in its transparent hair.
Or is it the younger sister of silence?
She is jugging a song of grasshoppers, with freckled, delicate face,
teasing an ear with splintery sound of a distant saw,
shuddering as a clank of a kennel chain…
So in which world am I now? In the best of impossible?
And the right bank of the conscience
gradually disappears into electric mist;
I hear a quiet murmur of the world –
the song of a parturient cat
(spilling her body with elegance on a windowsill),
I am harking to insubstantial,
instantaneous, non-eternal.
Thus a baby in mother’s womb
discerns the smeared, like jam, sounds of music from outside
and kicks, out of sync, with his tiny feet and miniature fists.
All these light senses – the sixth, seventh, or eighth –
they are yours, o Lord, weightless steps.
And all my words are some three-ton disposable anchors;
I cast them into an unthinkable deep,
never to heave them up to the surface…
(from Russian)
original text here: http://www.stihi.ru/2016/01/02/4825