Grandad in the countryside

That’s how it usually happens.

A Monday morning dawns and someone

escapes our notice.

He goes out into the street

walking with difficulty

looks over his shoulder

as if pursued by the night.

His clothes smell of Russian cleanliness

andointment for phlebitis.

He avoids patrol cars, goes past drugstores –

He fears death, even though he’s made up his mind

to permanently depart.

Now he is strolling among strangers

he coughs, chuckles

red-faced like a little child.

He rubs his knees excitedly

tobrush off Time

and keeps on chuckling

keeps on whispering

It’s Sunday today

He reaches out a hand

And suddenly finds himself

In the fields.

The wheat assumed

his body’s form.

Family doctor

Three days on end he was struggling in the jungle

of the clinic.

Native shamans blowpipesmedicinal herbs

Wild beasts and typhoons were smothering his voice.

Near by

Other patients calmly paddled their boats

They pointed at him took pictures.

The doctor came.

Said he should quit writing poems in the night.

translation by Tonia Kovalenko