horizon touched by black smoke,
rising in a morning fire
isn’t this what i dreamed about,
aren’t the crows screaming for war to come?
yonder i will follow the flock of birds,
only the sun will touch the sky,
a lynx will leave a trace
on snowy light landscapes
in the morning,
with the migration of snow-white clouds,
i’ll go hence, and the boughs
will drop a shawl under my feet
in the new morning, through endless fields,
i’ll go away, beyond the horizon
where the birds are in exile
for black smoke
i’ll follow all the storms,
on the way of birds flown away
and their forgotten traces on snow
in the morning, i’ll follow a pallas’ cat,
that smelled fresh prey,
i’ll onward speed and on my cheekbones
will snow fall and remain there evermore.
the smoke of black fires
spreads in the distance closing half of the sky,
the logs of burned dwellings,
push their bony fingers through the ice.
above the ash of old gardens,
the winds blow in their impotent rage,
pain of wrested words,
grows from the charred sky.
you, my burnt motherland
you are hot ardent ash,
is this you, on whom i have to sprinkle water…?
touch… die but avenge…
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