Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Eleven poems

Poems from Kireevsky

Where cold space is beating Into the sky so white, Tormented by heavy unfreedom, A wanderer’s selling his fate: Take it, whoever could use it, And come put down your means Into these not-long-ago hands of mine, As full of holes as a fence.

I no longer possess any body And I stand crooked, like a stamp,

And you can make out the empty hills Through these shoulder-blades and neck.

I went walking, Odessa to Kherson, Like wind in a desert steppe. I wandered the steppes beyond Baikal, Like boats on a black chain.

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