Transitions №2

Author: Elena Fanailova

Translated by Gillian McCormack

 
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Love didn’t die,
Grigory says.
In my chest is a needle
In my chest is a fire
Where Koshchei’s egg
Burns and turns.

All this rock n roll
optical illusion —
like a boxer,
you just take it.

And in the mean time
You’d like to return to the street of childish hopes
In exchange for a life
with little hot candles and a lamp on the corner
where, with bare feet crossed
In dirty jeans, your love
Smokes,
And quietly sits on the ground,
Expecting you.
Suntanned legs and painted nails,
Scarlet devil varnish,
And her feet are more real than anyone’s
And her pupils are happier than anyone’s
Her hair is the colour of wheat
And her eyes are too sad
But no sadder than the lead
And they are no bluer than the lead
That penetrates your heart.