Inna Lisyansky

For the fame and profit, selfish,
Much flame had been still collapsed…
And the fiddler of the Flemish,
Caught me with his look at once.

His fiddle-stick become quite charred,
His skull-cap – of dying flame,  
And, inquisitive and steady,
Looks at me this little old man. 

There is nobody who knows
Why does smoke our world: 
Whether fire eats us always,
Whether we consume it, hot.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001