Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Anzhelina Polonskaya

Like David

Perhaps this is the fear of leaves on a fall day?
David the conqueror gropes the space through empty sockets;
he forgot that he turned to stone long ago and has nowhere to run.
The damp horizon looks like a potato sliced by a spade.
There’ll be snow tomorrow.  It will alter our faces, sewing solemn lines of wrinkles.
Winter’s white goats will wander the orchard, stripping bark from the apple trees,
and they’ll look into the windows where we warm our hands over a quiet geranium fire.
Such are the days here, like drops of water in a prisoner’s solitary cell.
And we are immobile, like David, our legs planted deep in the ground.

Словно Давид

Словно Давид

Может быть, это боязнь листьев в осенний день?
Пустыми глазницами победитель Давид ощупывает пространство;
он забыл, что давно превратился в камень, и бежать ему некуда.
Сырой горизонт, словно срез картофелины под ударом лопаты.
Завтра выпадет снег. Он изменит наши лица, прошив суровыми нитками морщин.
Белые козы зимы обступят наш сад, объедая кору с яблонь,
и заглянут в окна, где мы греем руки над тихим огнём герани.
Таковы здесь дни, словно капли в одиночной камере заключённого.
И мы неподвижные, словно Давид, двумя ногами вросли в эту землю.
Close

Like David

Perhaps this is the fear of leaves on a fall day?
David the conqueror gropes the space through empty sockets;
he forgot that he turned to stone long ago and has nowhere to run.
The damp horizon looks like a potato sliced by a spade.
There’ll be snow tomorrow.  It will alter our faces, sewing solemn lines of wrinkles.
Winter’s white goats will wander the orchard, stripping bark from the apple trees,
and they’ll look into the windows where we warm our hands over a quiet geranium fire.
Such are the days here, like drops of water in a prisoner’s solitary cell.
And we are immobile, like David, our legs planted deep in the ground.

Like David

Perhaps this is the fear of leaves on a fall day?
David the conqueror gropes the space through empty sockets;
he forgot that he turned to stone long ago and has nowhere to run.
The damp horizon looks like a potato sliced by a spade.
There’ll be snow tomorrow.  It will alter our faces, sewing solemn lines of wrinkles.
Winter’s white goats will wander the orchard, stripping bark from the apple trees,
and they’ll look into the windows where we warm our hands over a quiet geranium fire.
Such are the days here, like drops of water in a prisoner’s solitary cell.
And we are immobile, like David, our legs planted deep in the ground.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
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