yet another story runs its course.
The shadows of the hump on March’s
hunched back grow longer,
there’s even more light,
an illusion appears,
this time everything will be different,
the geometry of sundust
and the alchemy of breathing
will suffice,
this year will be remembered for its early grass,
the rains will be unexpected,
like poems,
written by poets in love with their women.

Nothing comes for naught
and the time to answer for everything will come
settle up with the customs officers who collect
the black tribute of our solitude.

We leave behind
the dry rose stems of passion
on hotel balconies,
we leave behind sundust
on bronze skin.

the millstones of justice are spinning,
the lord’s mills are running,
sprinkling sundust over the March city.

Those willing
to sell their souls for a happy relationship
will raise their hands,
but be unable to reach an agreement with the middleman;
those who lack the resolve
will raise their hands;
and everyone else will raise their hands,
those who aren’t satisfied with the terms of the contract.

the sun moves,
time doesn’t stop,
our hearts stick together,
like swallows’ nests
on the eaves of love.
The lord’s mills have to run
for a long, long time,
run for a long, long time.

© Serhiy Zhadan

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