Upon the Bald Mountain the fires are dying out,
and autumn leaves burn in quiet on the Bald Mountain.
Now I have forgotten where it is, and I doubt it
that the Bald Mountain would recognize me now.
Evening time, you are a time of delicate partings!
And I do not know, do not know, do not know anymore
if I am alive, if I am dead, if I am dying alive, because all
thundered away, dimmed, and played out around me.
And you above mindlessness soar – like a bird –
above our mindlessness, shared and universal.
Forgive me. No more. I don’t know why it burst out.
If only you knew, how much you still hurt…
And up to this day I keep feeling the sorrowful palms,
lips bitter with tears. The wind forces forward
a shadow, your shadow, a small startled bird,
and dully, like blood in aortas, the nightingales’ thunder abounds.
translated by oksana maksymchuk and askold melnyczuk