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Word would become flesh once again
if in the wobbly coordinates of the mulberry trees
where the years pass
it ploughed me inch by inch
on the verge of the stiffened night
with the ploughshare of the tongue.

Having ground ourselves up with teeth
we transmit the smallest thing that we can control
across the horizons of time

at the time when the world beyond the threshold
cracks like an egg, full of fear.

The crowned being leaning over me,
with emptiness in its hands,
tightens the bursting nooses of veins,
breathes;

and through the tight opening
push through saliva, clots, and the sun,
black and painful.

translated by oksana maksymchuk

the original poem

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