P. Grushko

I don’t imagine who had lost it…
Having raised it from under tree,
I was confused like from the forest
a hidden woman looks at me…

And in a flash, from its smooth surface
vanished the pleasant spicy smell, – 
and just recall of my dreams, thoughtless,
was left with more fragrant spell.

I played the flute … Oh, how queer
the singing sound brought, at once, 
the spring sunrise, the girls, so dear,
and roses midst the meadows’ grass,

the sudden gentleness and sadness,
squeezing my hard, because it’s shy,
as if a smile, the fleeting, reckless,
was glad to pour self in a sigh…

Sadness and gladness, laugh and moans
were pouring like in the half-dream, – 
as if the woman heard my notes
from places that are never seemed…


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2002