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Poem

Anzhelina Polonskaya

To the Ashes

We’re heading into the night. We’re shadows of ash
on transparent stallions.
The piebalds won’t budge.
They just wail and burn.

Whip the horses and see the scars,
scoop water from an empty pail.
Behind us, nothing but loss.
Sail off, but where to? – nothing around but soot.

Our dead are everywhere –
in the trees, blossoms and fetes.
That same ash in their mouths
won’t let them wake from death.

The light floods in, but wait; it’s hard
when night falls from your eyes.
When coals in place of hearts
die out and quickly turn to dust.

К пеплу

К пеплу

Мы в ночь. Мы абрисы из пепла
верхом на призрачных конях.
Гнедые никуда, ни с места,
а только плачут и горят.

Хлестать коней и видеть шрамы,
и черпать от пустого дна.
Там за спиной – одни утраты.
Плыть, но куда? – кругом зола.

И наши мёртвые повсюду – 
в деревьях, в праздниках, в цветах.
От смерти не даёт очнуться
им тот же пепел на устах.

А хлынет свет, постой: как трудно, 
когда уходит ночь из глаз.
И вместо сердца гаснет уголь,
и рассыпается тотчас.
Close

To the Ashes

We’re heading into the night. We’re shadows of ash
on transparent stallions.
The piebalds won’t budge.
They just wail and burn.

Whip the horses and see the scars,
scoop water from an empty pail.
Behind us, nothing but loss.
Sail off, but where to? – nothing around but soot.

Our dead are everywhere –
in the trees, blossoms and fetes.
That same ash in their mouths
won’t let them wake from death.

The light floods in, but wait; it’s hard
when night falls from your eyes.
When coals in place of hearts
die out and quickly turn to dust.

To the Ashes

We’re heading into the night. We’re shadows of ash
on transparent stallions.
The piebalds won’t budge.
They just wail and burn.

Whip the horses and see the scars,
scoop water from an empty pail.
Behind us, nothing but loss.
Sail off, but where to? – nothing around but soot.

Our dead are everywhere –
in the trees, blossoms and fetes.
That same ash in their mouths
won’t let them wake from death.

The light floods in, but wait; it’s hard
when night falls from your eyes.
When coals in place of hearts
die out and quickly turn to dust.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère