Transitions №7
Author: Larissa Joonas
Translated by Mark Wingrave
*
It's as if the trees were posing for one last photo
I'll press the shutter the aperture will close everything will go
the image will remain for pixels never burn
but the branches of the trees stir no more
nor will the budding blossom shiver
nor moisture reach its fragile veins
no more wind light dark nor quiet.
2018
*
Casting a yellow triangular beam of light
on a blank disused pigsty wall
between village A and station B
a lone abject lamp is only seen by passengers
from windows of buses and high-speed trains
glowing it stirs an endless longing in eyes
barely able to pick the landscape night from
the neon lit reflections
simply forgotten the lamp burns on demeaned
deemed worthless not given any thought
even the last days still endure and fail to fuse.
2018
*
More and more I feel I’m in one of Tarkovsky’s films,
turning to those who won’t hear me —
what further vows must I take,
what sacrifices must I make,
perhaps it all hinges on my last hard graft?
Every morning there's no answer. None.
On waking even the newspapers
give no indication there are results.
The sleepless nights, time and again — no response.
So, is it all a waste of time?
The house burnt down, the edifice of Russian literature
burns behind me to the ground.
Figures dash through melting snow,
who are they, why are they running up to me?
There's no answer, not one answer, none.
2022