Zakhar Prilepin - Sin

In the treetops the dew
is beating its wings,
the breathing greenery
lowers its face,
the blackness of wet
berries lightly drowses —
rains have rocked them
to sleep in their cradle.

In the reflection through eyelids
cracked open, half waking,
there was a mist; and the earth,
and damp berries,
and the grass underfoot,
pockmarked from cold,
caressed me, pretending
to be the Homeland.

I’ve already lived more than once,
but I dare not live any longer.
Either sensual passion
or a foolish idea
to live it out hindered me
from gathering up the rest of the crumbs.
And sweet snow fondled
the roads of fir.

Forgive me, father, that
I had no desire
to catch with my hot mouth
the last breath.
The gift of fate, alas,
I did not preserve, or show it affection,
and did not hold life
by its slippery wrists.

Without lamentation or rage,
I fell to earth unripe.
The soul yet once more
easily said farewell to the body.
Speech cannot contain
the time and distance
from such short meetings
and frequent partings.

I’ve lived so often, that
I forgot places and dates.
And to recall all that
makes no sense here.
In the world wars
I didn’t manage to age —
I perished in two of them
And I will be there for the third.

As fingernails grow after death,
so my feeling for you,
with all the undernail dirt
when life’s time span runs out
will not stop its motion.

Do not fear — if the autumn is long,
it will not be eternal;
in fact,
this is just what you have to fear.

December with disfigured face,
and I with icy hands,
And you mixed up in the scent of lilacs,
and with hair the color of wet cherries,
and with other trash,
other junk,
other lies.

I wanted a cure — too late:
the cough and the cold disappeared.
I’ll call my puppy Bismark,
and pour champagne on the asters.
The path to madness lies close
in January’s dry midday.

The snows on the fir trees have ripened.
Shall we knock them down tonight?
It’s so inexpressibly charming
to look at your legs,
that if one looks past them,
one loses the meaning of vision.

You must have got better,
I don’t remember you this way.
If I couldn’t know at all, but it’s too late.

And if you press your palms
to your eyes, and removing them, look
at the stars — they are like chandeliers.

I mixed all the lines up — what for.
You might just as well
tangle your shoelaces up.
Can’t sleep. In the nooks of the brain
it’s all you; and, counting the minutes,
I lose the count only toward morning…

You walked round.
I walked through.
Whispering of feelings,
I hurt my jaw.
I fired shots (here’s the rhyme: without aiming).

You walked in the middle.
I turned the corner.
All feelings are simple:
pencil or charcoal.
Sporadic simplicity —
I was scaring off pride.

But is there a point weaving
speeches about this!
When your hands touched my neck
less often in autumn than my scarf,
from where came the hope
that the rivers would freeze in the winter?

All feelings are simple.
Only poses are complex.
We lived through autumn
to the white payoff.
And the frosts have a scent — of frost.
And the color of rain was terribly rainy.

I have still lost
the value of my words
so often admitting
dead
made-up
stillborn feelings —
lost them
for which I was punished
by solitude
in another icy january
by salt
by an empty horizon
by snow
by the husky voice
of solitude
depression’s unkempt goblin
misery’s green corner

words are all quite
worthless

never mind

tomorrow morning
a girl with a lazy smile
will look at me in the tram
she won’t like me
but something will interest her
before she leaves the tram
she’ll turn around again
and our eyes will meet

outside
catching up with her
I’ll say
in my home there are many boring books
I also have handcuffs
and some money for a bottle of beer
I’m a poet and also I can
play Vertinsky on the guitar
(your fingers smell of incense)
I can play something about your fingers

I still hope: like a child
who breaks a vase and freezes in horror
wishing it would come together
by itself and go back to the sideboard.

Reading books, I still dream
and still believe that life
and death will sort things out
and I — alone — will be left innocent.