1.
September's pouring from its charcoal pail
fogs' heavy weight
and waters' heavy wail.
The cloudrun's jangle
against the tin of heaven's gate
won't go away.
2.
The tongue
can't twine a rhyme.
It's feeling no pain.
My pen is cracked apart, oh poet's faithful cane.
Come to unboot my ache. I'll go barefoot.
Come, free the feet of mine.
3.
I credit you for loss of sight.
The spiky, needly branch of love
has whipped the globes of my eyes away.
So sweet's the chilly tightened eyelids' fluff,
my empty eyeballs' easy sway.
I freely walk beside.
4.
An infant's palm of simple joy
is softly blessing
chalky brows.
Let me believe the faith.
What simply flows
is never easy to express.
Original: slova.org.ru/mariengof/tuchelet/