It’s a good thing
the port’s open every day,
and every day somebody pulls up
to a city
where people live the southern way,
where newcomers have tribute to pay.
Saracens tempered by peregrinations
pass through customs and printing houses,
looking for love like vaccinations
in cold houses of yellow stone.
Hasidic Jews keep twilight
in their garments.
The letters of the Torah are so atypical.
White sails, like girls’ dresses
fill the port with the feeling of love.
Hasidic Jews speak about everything
except God.
It’s as if he irked them somehow.
Always this odd unease in the summer
it’s better to spend the night together.
In the summer even indoor plants
gaze into the future confidently.
Black starlings like bickering families,
on the wild cherries, perching despairingly.
The framework of the sun
was built sturdily.
Invisible presses operate steadily.
It’s a good thing there are international airlines.
It’s a good thing flights arrive regularly.
Custom officers serve faithfully,
each works for a waiting family.
I’m counting the remnants of the navy.
I’m reaching the middle slowly.

© Serhiy Zhadan

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