Matvei Yankelevich

A thousand winters' words have sounded clearer
than my own. I hold up the wind, admire its color.
The cup tries to empty but I keep it full, alright.
I regret that while I lived, I never drank enough.
A thousand years and no one speaking, no light.
It's my own fault if my life is bitter; tough
things flourish here. I'm sad the need is lost
for torches. As day dawns misty, I'm a ghost.

                          (after Hilary Ayer's Chinese hermits / Membrane Press)