Yulia Kudryavitskaya 

Translator

And we went through my home town
almost silently, he said nothing, as though everything
had to remain unsaid, hot whisper
lingered on that summer day,
no tree cast a shadow, no tunnel,
he removed my hand from
his hip and inquired about the location
of von Loudon's grave – I guess, he
no longer wanted to go farther,
my father.

In the beginning was
the word for a berth. Farther
from the name
and still indistinguishable
from the stench – spirit
as movement! – of nature.
Close to the puzzle,
which is
a solution. The grinding
of a continent, one or another.
The rumbling of the sea.
The throbbing where
the blood comes from. Where
the Yes!-body appears. And,
like in a fairy-tale...
The mirror on the wall.
And rage. Beauty in the eye
of a bystander.