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Sergei Lebedev
the wind moved the old
men’s hair, pushing it from
their eyes.
The men were blind; their
minds were damaged and
their gazes were stopped like
a rundown clock. The lens,
cornea, iris, the entire eye
was whole, the visual core
of the brain was whole, but
the mind refused to allow
the visible world in, refused
to see. The eyes were those
of a sleeping man whose lids
were lifted without rousing
him, and the pupils were like
binoculars turned inward,
into the head, the dark
cosmos of dreams that is not
accessible to the waking.
I waited, not knowing what
time of day was in their heads,
if they had any time at all,
at what point they lost their
sight, if they remembered
the house, the apple trees,
the village, the river, the
land on both sides, if they
understood where I was and
who they were.
They were brothers, and no
longer able to see, they came
to resemble one another even
more. Their faces fell into
neglect; the unconsciousness
that annihi l ated thei r
lives also annihilated their
distinguishing features. All
that was left in their faces
was what had been placed
there by their parents’
blood: their faces had been
taken over by their fathers,
grandfathers, and great-
grandfathers, and it seemed
those f igures would start
coming out, opening the
flesh like a door, and exiting
one at a time, and once the
last one was out, gaping
emptiness would replace the
face.
The o l d men f i na l l y
understood that a stranger