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Tatyana Milova

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. . . I’ve overslept my stop . . . the train will spit me out

. . . I’ve overslept my stop . . . the train will spit me out . . .
The halt is deserted. I’ll panic, that’s for sure.
The wind is wet and drives me from the platform
And tears and tousles me until I speak.

Wind, if I’m a sail, then where’s my boat?
If I’m a treetop, wind, show me my roots.
What am I to you? I’m asking calmly, nicely.
Distant clanking. Buckets? . . . Distant neighing. Horses? . . .

‘Silly’ comes the whisper nice and calm,
‘We know your niceness and we know your fables
But what are you to me? – a Chinese lantern or a sparkler.
If I can, I’ll huff and puff – you’ll gutter and go out.’

Wind, you’re master here. And I’m the guest and will be silent.
Ruined tractor. Gravel pit. Rusting stove-pipes.
The smell of the river sticks in my throat like a bone.
You’re master here. It’s hard to deny.

The train has come and I am leaving.
God Save the Wind! The houses echo and the fields are bare.
I’m strange to them and whether it’s my fault’s
Too late to say. There’s nowhere for me here . . . no word for me                                                                                           here.

Translated by Robert Reid

Page(s) 127

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