Transitions №3

Author: Yury Milorava

Translated by Anna Halberstadt

 
* * *

calls
cold arguments gifts
a part of
an ancient brick table
and a partially made of brick automobile
and generally, a crane
like a bonfire
of
smooth lines

 
* * *

a gesture
did not die
holiday
abruptly – lightning –
spread thick juice from black
open themselves
pointing by devout flashes
the doors

 
* * *

lengthy like a poem
construction of rafters, a most important line-up
of hands lava
the size of the sky
helmets of a crowd
not stopped
bent crooked
edge of the stars

 
* * *

these
blossoms
get on fire
from the roots
of a ragged source of greenery
from where
agitated
green
book covers book covers
or insides of bushes

 
* * *

slow is
a honey-colored arm
only by the wall
in the morning
from the black niche
of movements
swims ivy
and
like iridescent bravery
a heart, embraced by the leaves.

 
* * *

For N.K.

Roses are scattered over
the directions of suburbs
just like a separate zone –
behind a lie – poorly sugar-coated
secret happiness
a gray-white fake rabbit farm of tables
shoes, purple in the night
dancing
on sand
at the foot of a hill

 
* * *

a stuttering dark-evening-like
word through everything that can be learned from words
handrails of a hundred-faced bridge
needles of street light’s play
loud needles a container a rattle
feathers
melting like balls
of gold leaf –
eight loaves –
of black bread

 
* * *

A street flies in a rush
giving up its doorsteps
towards the stupa pink wind and a gong
into the bowl of time
old train platform till the destination
inflamed scabs –
broken facts –
glued together
the first part of a shivering page
by heart
or in the form of a twig

 
* * *

we are still waiting
above the muscle – the clang
and we still cannot reach the funnel of sculptures
and genealogy of butchers
impossible to reach
and carved copper
moaning
of their
seals