by Larissa Shmailo
I haven’t passed that dream of wisdom,
the borders you crossed through.
I can’t translate the language
I thought I thought I knew.
I see a meaning, watching you die,
hold it in my hands like a graying sigh,
this lock of hair which I comb and tie.
I kiss the head which hears my no,
and meet your eyes, and say: Don’t go.
and leave you to this tongue of dread:
This is me, it cries, this is me and I die.
We will all speak these words in this wayand then, and till then, what shall I say?