You see, my friend,
even the twilight doesn’t count now.
The rock crystal of departed sounds doesn’t dull.
So if a swallow in me
drifts off to sleep,
my life still won’t be over.
Both fish and hills will live, will stay.
And polka dots on china silk won’t grow
when, among the rings of disconnected silence,
the warmth of life deserts my home.
But fish – both carp and rudd,
and way to measure in grams the weight of kisses
will still exist
no matter when
my dogged, stubborn ECG comes to an end.

***

Ten years have passed, my love.
You married another one.
Dead souls smell of salt and home and smoke.
It’s hard to measure resentment.
But words are begging to be written as poetry.
Ten years have passed like nine.
I could wait seventy.
Years were long and short.
Lines were rhymed or not.
The pain kept me alive,
took me away from death.
Words led to new words.
Pieces of ice to new ice.
Three-five-ten, my dear.
Only your name is left.
Are you happy with her?

(Translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian.)

Evgenia Jen Baranova, born Kherson, Ukraine, is a writer of poetry and literary prose. She graduated from Sevastopol National Technical University with a degree in Information Management Systems and Technologies in 2011. She was a finalist, prize-winner and laureate of a number of Russian-language literary contests. Baranova is the author of a book of poems, “Rybnoye Mesto” (“The Fishable Spot”).