Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Halyna Petrosanyak

We crossed the border. We tore flowers in someone else’s fields . . .

We crossed the border. We tore flowers in someone else’s fields,
quietly uttering the words of a first heard language,
we spent the night under the bare sky, and our homeland in our dreams
appeared less and less, and, nearly always its wintry
landscapes — harsh, grand places,
are marked with the stamp of immutability. We forgot
the rare voices of its birds, the scent of home, and this
ability seemed appropriate, rather than a hindrance.
The land was chosen by us already as our own.
The rapture from living here reached its apogee.
But sometimes in innocent conversations the name of
a strange beggar from Ithaca, the incomprehensible Odysseus, disconcerted us.

We crossed the border. We tore flowers in someone else’s fields . . .

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We crossed the border. We tore flowers in someone else’s fields . . .

We crossed the border. We tore flowers in someone else’s fields,
quietly uttering the words of a first heard language,
we spent the night under the bare sky, and our homeland in our dreams
appeared less and less, and, nearly always its wintry
landscapes — harsh, grand places,
are marked with the stamp of immutability. We forgot
the rare voices of its birds, the scent of home, and this
ability seemed appropriate, rather than a hindrance.
The land was chosen by us already as our own.
The rapture from living here reached its apogee.
But sometimes in innocent conversations the name of
a strange beggar from Ithaca, the incomprehensible Odysseus, disconcerted us.

We crossed the border. We tore flowers in someone else’s fields . . .

We crossed the border. We tore flowers in someone else’s fields,
quietly uttering the words of a first heard language,
we spent the night under the bare sky, and our homeland in our dreams
appeared less and less, and, nearly always its wintry
landscapes — harsh, grand places,
are marked with the stamp of immutability. We forgot
the rare voices of its birds, the scent of home, and this
ability seemed appropriate, rather than a hindrance.
The land was chosen by us already as our own.
The rapture from living here reached its apogee.
But sometimes in innocent conversations the name of
a strange beggar from Ithaca, the incomprehensible Odysseus, disconcerted us.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère