By Aleksey Porvin 5

 

Like March snow, you
spend white until it
thaws — dark patches,
perhaps brightened

by a pack of cigarettes —
empty throw – away,
open to damp winds,
brand name happily erased.

If I look at it, why ?  Nearby
something shines —
tenderly: I want to believe
in a drop of snow.

White is not spent — spendor
to the skies — white is not time!
Where earth darkens, there
white lasts — white lasts.

Translated from the Russian by Leo Yankevich.