Letters
Attila Mohylnyi
Attila Mohylnyi
THE WINTER OF OUR CITY
1.A Poem Instead of a Dedication
There is no sad love,
just sometimes,
if you wander through snow-covered
streets,
old tales come to mind.
Such a short while we were together
That is seems aeons have passed,
and so:
to You.
2
Give me your hand – and we’ll walk
through the streets of Old Kyiv,
for it is only in winter that a hand
craves for another hand so much.
Give me your hand – and we’ll walk
past the shops and the hairdresser’s,
for it is only in winter that our breaths
freeze on the glass so much.
We’ll nibble on nuts
and Christmas tangerines,
we’ll talk merrily about
anything but the love,
may the colored snow fall
like threads of streamers
upon the tiled roofs
in the quarters of Old Kyiv.
An ancient Slavic tale
About the horses, buried in the snow,
armed crossbows and
glances through arrow-slits.
Give me your hand – and we’ll walk
through the winter silence of Kyiv
into the flattery of old memories
and blue blizzards.
3
If you like, I’ll tell you
a simple secret about
how the snow falls
slowly and quietly in the night,
and then, long and wild,
the echo died far off,
and bells rang like arrows
against the crimson shields.
And if you like, I’ll tell you
how our men stood against the foe
in inextricable blind-alleys
and about shots fired from roofs.
Let’s talk a bit about
poetry, and snow, and legends —
for, you know, maybe the snow
falls so quietly for the last time.
4
Perhaps, we’ll soon forget
the olden tales and we’ll step
into the night so imperceptibly
as light streaming from a window,
as, under the black towers
the first line of the Rus
tied their belts to each other,
knee-deep in the snow,
and the riders in blue
silken cloaks fell,
and like Christmas ribbons
foreign banners fluttered.
We’ll catch a taxi, and
in velvet silence
our lips will turn lighter
than the snow on street-lamps,
and, in the houses with chimeras,
the ghosts will drink peacefully
5. A Poem Instead of an Epilogue
While the snow is falling,
sad dragons on buildings
will remember us,
for it was Richard
who hopped in to Kyiv
just to raise his castle and leave,
and we remain here
forever.
(Attila Mohylnyi. Contours of Kyiv: Selected Poems. Kyiv: A-Ba-Ba-Ha-La-Ma-Ha, 2013, p. 11–16.)