Reminiscence About The Moon
When I touch your face
my fingertips are redolent of apple blossoms,
the moon above us
lives the life of a saint
Then within me is born
a virgin horizon,
and you caress it,
like a breeze in May.
But someday He will return,
that Moon, who'd been our friend,
and with a malevolent touch
will turn our happiness into dry sand.
And once more we'll take it into our hands
and pour it between our greedy palms,
seeking in vain that near miracle
that was with us for so long.
We'll gaze together into the reaches of the rivers,
into the reaches of our hearts,
until we get pricked by
the cold realization of our efforts' futility,
until we comprehend
that for us all is already dead.
And then we'll say good-bye
with an awkward, disoriented smile,
and leave one another — strangers.
When mirrors of tears wilt in my irises,
when leaves of my palms blacken, when
the last fruit falls from my forehead,
and autumn pins grays to my temples —
be with me then. Be with me when
all that’s left in the wake of my eyes
is this big empty white moon, and nothing more.
Love me then.
translated by Olga Gerasymiv