By Aleksey Porvin 1
It seems so far from whence it came, its two
inscriptions barely made out by the eye
at night — a vague sign on an avenue,
hanging above the heads of passersby.
Yet still it sails towards my window pane,
brushing snow for luck, a letter sent,
though, without any memory retained
of what it does or doesn’t represent.
Who is aboard ? Tell me, or please explain.
What lies behind the words Fresh Bread, like freight
that hints it’s time for light to come again ?
(Sunrise the pretext/union worth the wait.)
You who direct my words towards warm light,
you are both very masterful and holy,
breaking the back of this cold winter night
and this code ( but not with the letter’s body).
Translated from the Russian by Leo Yankevich.