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Natalka Bilotserkivets
THE WINE OF ANGELS
There is a fair land where maidens are like crystal,
and children like steel—unbreakable without fail;
where dragonslayers on bended knee drink
the wine of angels in the cold silence of halls.
There is a fair land, dying grass,
where a dragon sings waiting for centuries,
His wise head bent over, his mighty white
sailcloth wings embroidered in flowers.
The red color of cliffs where you find
the cells of monks, where stone chalices burn
in the misery of settlements,
where since long ago the wine of angels
has been invisible, like tears on a river,
like our dead souls.