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March is a month of courtship. It smells
of thawed blood and churned ice. Infant trees
stir in the peaceful cradles, reach out their little hands
and suck on the invisible nipples. Much of you
is lost on us, you time of joyless mornings,
sleepless dawns and lingering hesitant dusks.

These warm fingertips do not fear in vain
to touch the parched wings of the past events
and to disturb their slumber, striking the cool depositories of images
off the wooden casket. We must survive
until morning, stroking the wounds of memory
with moist lips, downwards with the grain,

smoothing out the folds on the shattered surfaces.
By a wise path I make my way through the forest,
a plush labyrinth, embroidered in aquamarine.
Peeling back the heavy branches of memories,
I discover the clearing in the setting of wild strawberry bushes.
I lean over. The silence mushrooms.

translated by uilleam blacker and oksana maksymchuk

the original poem

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