Still my river—and your river
still my hand—and your hand
will never join, or not until
one dawn catches up another dawning.
from “Poems for Blok: 5”, tr. Elaine Feinstein
[We are poets, which has the sound of outcast.
Nevertheless, we step out from our shores.]
We dare contend for godhead, with goddesses,
and for the Virgin with the gods themselves.
from “The Poet: Part 2”, tr. Elaine Feinstein
My head rests in my hands as I
realize, looking into the night
that no one turning over our letters has
yet understood how completely and
how deeply faithless we are, which is
to say: how true we are to ourselves.
from “What is this gypsy passion for separation”, tr. Elaine Feinstein