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Olga Khvostova

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Migration

Either this is temporary, or, alas, it’s just deserts.

I’m talking about exile, when you’re forgotten, small, fearful,

where you get the wet rope
from every bitch and judgmental arsehole;

the migration of the soul from the seething cauldron
of Asia, which will burn to ash,

the flight of the body from the ancient
Arabian plane trees to the Russian birches.

Quo vadis? Yes, across,
tearing with a crackle rag after rag.

Feel horror, complain, burn, southern woman,
you poor one, tender one, convict woman.

Let them hiss about the vulgar opposition and falsity,
go on, go further,

to get lost, get old, dissolve,
to go out there where wrongs are done,

to sing Alleluia to another nation!
Search for that place, where the forgiving ones indulge their whims

where difference does not
appear, similarity crawls in,
ah, send your superiority home!

Gather up your belongings, leave shelter,
go further, though they’ll hammer you.

Translated by Richard McKane

Page(s) 97

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