Ukraine 12/08
Every time I travel here, these fields hurt.
They land this country down like a dead birch tree,
Chopping its body in coloured parts.
They sap the earth beneath the unharvested wheat,
Stretching, shearing
Tractors slumbering
In recession
Lines of apple trees festooned with exchange rates.
The sky snuggles at the earth’s breast
Like a tender lover
No other reassurance.
I see you, my love, in your ruin,
Walking out of past pornography,
Through the curtain of mountains,
Abandoned mines and railways.
We watch the poets lower their heads
Guilty
In Departures queues,
The Cossacks sheathe their sabres.
What do these monuments weight?
More postcards, in a lost language,
From Israel to America,
Asking
For more news from nowhere.
Every time I travel here...
© Copyright: Егор Лановенко, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108122402050
Свидетельство о публикации №108122402050
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