For Ivan Drach

Like a heavy door - you close the Millennium
the snow of the past flies after us
like stones. And only the hills and the foxes

are unmoving and warm, like the rain.
An empty tree gives us a ring the line
of its shadow - the crumbled glass of a sound -

and the earthly fruits scented by a fox grow bitterer
is it indeed river? And the air's black silk
tears where angels fly

ask no one - we shall close their lips with lock and key
no one will see them - and no one will hear
the flute of a voice resembling a lark song

for they have dissolved into white mist, into the milk of air
chase a shadow and observe the plum blossom
compose your songs whose every sound is a well of sorrow

the lines of letters are golden threads of light, and the yarn
of the pine forest. The river darkens, heard from the suburbs,
and last night's doubt solidifies in a stone garden

tell no one - for it's growing dark and the flame of a lantern
half-illuminates you a fox and earthly fruits
and from afar a river dins as heavy as a skirt

the stones fly after them the plum blossom
sticks to the lips you spit it out and do not understand
why there is so much of it in the stone garden of solitude

Translation: 2001, Vasyl Makhno, Richard Burns, Vitaly Chernetsky