Translated by Dmitry Bosky
One, little spider on my hand Two, little spider on my train window Three, little spider—but no longer, Just blood and a patch with some legs under my thumb
Here I am on the local train, dimly lit. I need a sauna. I need grandma’s meatballs. I’m on my way to the house that who built?— A criminal, a migrant, a brave warrior, some dross.
I need to get drunk. I’m so thirsty. I need to know where is that port of call Where they have taken you all.
And I need to know why. Surely there must be a reason for this final abyss. I need all channels to change Their metaphors and direction, And no more spiders. Do you read me?
Since the day the war started, We stopped sleeping but did not stop loving. This won’t help us, not at all, useless. Better look at the ships in the sky— And go numb And sleep.
We have a cliché: this perfect storm. Each one of us who has been wounded by it Now mourns his own loss. In his own nook which is now In Buenos Aires, Bar, Berlin, Belgrade, Tbilisi, and Tel Aviv – But I want To be back In that same indistinguishable building, With that rug on the wall, China set in the buffet, And a bathtub! Not just a shower. With food deliveries by Yandex. I want the world, Now turned inside out, To come back And stop being so frightening.
When I was a child, we had a spa cup in the shape of a devil’s head. Of it, I am ready to be scared. There were scary fairy tales.
A princess Gathered nettles To have her brothers back. Another one Spun rough wool To obtain fire.
It seems that we are now in a place in this fairy tale To which the brothers don’t want to return. The wool isn’t spinning, the nettles are wilting, The princesses are washed away by the perfect storm.