Translated from the Ukrainian by Orest Popovych
the smell of linen long stored in a closet
the cries of birds that fly with a cloud of dust
a dog with a lame leg
verses that hover in the air
- the voice of the departed Whitney -
rough walls - a gluey orange
from here you can't see the volcano Mumbacho
clattering buggies - into the horse's ears
flow the orchestras and the attire of February
and the carnival which can be heard around the corner
- all this will change nothing -
coffee is brewing and grains are roasting
the beer tastes like the coolness of a lake
in the evening again the readings before hundreds
again the street people will beg for money
the night paints lips and eyebrows
- of the river smells Bronwyn -
a blackened church - an aging Madonna
nearby they also opened a McDonald's
everywhere winter and provincial doldrums
young prostitutes cheapen the prices
midnight is guarded by the infantas of Inessa
- with their sultry whispers: beso -
a few butterflies having worn out their wings
also hurry to change their attire
settling down on a woman's black hair
like red flowers or a retinue
and it's not right to let go of the woman
who wants to frolic like a butterfly
an almost empty Avenida Cervantes
local people leave to pick oranges
others stand in line for the carnival
I stand by the wall thus expecting nothing
I don't belong here - I don't know where to stand
- there's no one even to ask -
I hurry because soon it will start
the first column will surge forward
death's statue with a scythe in thick woven cloth
a puppet spinning on a pole
the rustle of skirts over sweaty calves
- you scrutinize with wide-open eyes -
and the carnival finally did move
each beauty is holding a rose
dark musicians fly above the town
the sounds run over like rising dough
so with the dust cloud and the wormy sounds
- it's best for me to become a shoe -
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