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The voice reaches for the spheres
and tints the porcelain
of gloomy skies in an attempt to bring to life
the infinite eyes and shrieks, long dead,
with a wing of butterfly.

Leave it to the worlds
to feebly strive toward eternity,
to end their course.

When the gathered fingertips of a praying child
solidify into a star, the hardened spirit will emerge
in the enormity of emptiness.
A tear will calcify into a star.

A see-through wing of a butterfly resounds
with long-forgotten singing.
Await yourself.
Sometime.

translated by oksana maksymchuk

the original poem

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