It’s harder to lick wounds of your heart in wintertime.
The whole city looks like a computer program
Devoured by the weak-sighted virus of snow.
Blue shadows freeze in paper cups.
The waterline of twilight becomes fuzzy.
The white, pink, orange darkness draws near.
Sumo wrestlers shake their cold blubber
On the pavements, awnings, benches.
The snow rustles, the blizzard swishes,
Snakes settle in old newspapers…
And you’ve found three pairs of gloves
While cleaning up the shelves.
Now that you are alone again,
Who could you give these nights to –
The lilac triangles of love and warmth,
Of light snoring and sleepy kisses?
It’s only winter that hugs you,
And loneliness puts its heavy paw on your breasts.
It’s not January but a factory for sewing silvery covers.
God’s moving house from this planet to no one knows where,
Packing belongings into boxes, into Styrofoam of snows:
Fracturable things, lives, orchards, ships.
He puts them on foam rubber, wraps the dishes in paper,
Careful not to break to smithereens
The fragile Christmas bauble with people on it…
Translated by Sergey Gerasimov from the Russian