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

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