Swim, fish, swim —
those are your islands over there,
there’s your grass,
there’s your rudder:
holding to your route
sewing your parachute,
watching for you in the depths
with your rudder.

When green stars fall into the mouth of the river,
when your rudder
utters the words:
that over there – that’s my dreams,
that over there – those are fishermen’s boats,
that’s night, that’s the current,
that’s my death, probably.

Life is silence and laughter.
There’ll be enough for everyone.
There’s enough for everyone
for all my loves.

So fly, fish, fly -
I know all the bridges,
I know all the lighthouses,
I do everything backwards.

Just your words,
just secrets and miracles,
just confession and fasting
in one of the port cities.
Love, fish, love,
sure, hopelessly, sure,
sure, without any hopes —
rejoice, fish, rejoice.

Love is worthy of everything —
worthy of your pain,
worthy of your separations,
worthy of disgust and torture,
a dog’s angry howling,
madness and mercy.
Worthy of life even.
Not to mention death.

© Serhiy Zhadan

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