he Morning Triptych 1-3
Translated by Ekaterina Zhuravleva and Elena Zhuravleva
Edited by Daniel Allen
You get up in the morning, cast aside a window curtain, look out to the yard, and to your wonder there is a tomtit sitting on a bench. Everything around is all white and grey but a tomtit’s chest is still very bright. It sits and turns its head to one side or the other in a very grand manner. While looking at it your face gets softer, you want to smile and you do smile, and the nightmare that gets you up off the bed becomes no more than a hazy, gradually dying echo.
The very early morning,
When fog hung around the riverside willows
How you were warily entering the icy cold river!
How your shoulders and hands were appearing above it!
And a strong jealousy was born inside of me
A jealousy of the river.
Why is it the river, but not me who gingerly touches the pits of your belly
Why is it not me, but the river that covers with a trembling hand the very tips of your breasts
That insolently stand out from the water?
Why is it the river, but not me who leans with over dried lips to the pit between your
Why is it the river, but not me who embraces you with fear?