All of my room

is so crisp, so resonant.

So downy it has been made

yet so stiff to sleep in.

Six and a half to one side,

four steps to the other.

I wander here, poor bastard,

like a rusty-colored horse.

And every thought here

is tight and wary.

So quickly I’ve lost all the fat,

though food’s exquisite.

Cars roam all around

As if on a parade.

The paper, my malicious friend,

will hamper me here, too.

I’ve departed from the gloomy cellar,

I’ve left the Bohdan’s square,

where the hetman sends his stallion

into a gallop every morning.

There, I’ve lost sight

of true heaven long ago,

and now the Lord has promised

me full hetman privileges

(And soon you’ve got yourself in trouble,

when prison devils brought you

up to the third floor

for buki and mysleti).

All of my room

is so crisp, so resonant,

it squeaks like a fiddle,

yet there’s no one to dance with.

January [19]72

Sophia has already thrived off,

twinkled off the lilac trusses.

You went to me, yet lingered too long

for the first scream, for the first thunder.

Like a monster in a circle of Hell –

for the shadows are all around, the weakly are.

I bless your willfulness,

oh road of fate, oh road of pain.

The snow and the cold. The winds and the frost.

The whistles and shouts. The blackest cursing.

The barking of dogs. The scream of a loco.

And zakmachines, and zakwagons.

Cross-sleepers and headlights, dogs and soldiers,

railings, and bars, and fences.

Drop and go. Rise and go.

The machine guns shove our shoulders.

A square heart in a squared circle,

in a mortal square we shall fall to the fate.

I bless your willfulness,

oh road of fate, oh road of pain.

At the final crossing of rage and horror,

at the final insight of mortal scream,

grant, oh Ukraine, a proud path,

grant, oh Ukraine, a proud face!