Belka doesn't know it but I am distressed
like old wells in the afternoon,
like an old door leading to a castle
that hasn't been opened in one hundred years.
Already I have found a taste of thirst in the water,
as I watch the crops being reaped in the field..
And everything leaves me with the winter...
But Belka doesn't know it.
Belka doesn't know it because she's up there
and I am down here...distressed in my own manner.
I can hear what the wind dares not tell me..
and I know which way one must step on the grass.
Belka doesn't know it but I say it..
alone in the night, alienated in my own fashion.
And I also know nothing would change
even if Belka knew of it.
I know that I must keep marching forward
towards eventually nowhere.
In this side of time where there is snow
for the love that arrives late.
I know every door is closed
once dusk arrives in every street.
And I know of an abyss where there are shadows
but Belka doesn't know of it.
I know in which direction roots grow..downwards.
Not upwards..towards the Spring.
Of the rain that keeps falling and it isn't rain anymore.
In the sand that keeps being sand...
Belka doesn't know it and nothing would change.
Nothing.. no matter how often I say it.
Or it could be that she does know
and she's distressed for her puppy
without my knowing it.
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