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This dawn is like an even flare
of a night parachute that opened
and having lost its earthly gravitation,
hangs suspended above the world –
as if it changed its mind, decided to return
upward  (inertia of desire
completely drained this well-rounded flare
of blinded pain). The gray daybreak
has woken me with its disheveled wing,
and life was recollected as a dream.

… somewhere barked a dog, and it seemed that
the scroll of centuries has started to unroll
ever so slowly, and on the Mesolithic coil
it would not ease the linen for a while.
An ebony raven flew spread out
in the earth-ridden boundless sky
and the raven’s aimless flight was meant
to be a presage of apocalypse.

And so it seemed: that the ancestral myth
could no longer convince the soul
that the currents of terror, time and hope
all flow in only one direction.

Whatever the future has concealed from us,
had long been lived through. The future
dwells in the past, right now
but an embroidery of the soul, gone numb.

And then it also seemed, at dawn, as through a blindfold:
that I have lost myself in multitude
of self-multiplication of this world
that gleams through the binoculars of suffering.

My loves, smashed into splinters, each of them
grows spherical, like an eyeball
of someone mad with grief that I
have vanished in a hundred imprints of the world,
deadened and hardened in the trust and thrust
into the abyss.
Like a Neolithic cave,
it roars with darkness,
draws us and repels us.

It was the break of dawn. And glazed with blinding
blue ink of disbelief,
the solid surface of the sky kept silent
as if benumbed; only the raven
kept up his flight and made his rounds,
drilling black holes in universe.

translated by oksana maksymchuk and max popelysh-rosochynsky

the original poem

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