Together they loved
sit on the hillside.
From there they could see
church, gardens, prison.
From there they took
pond overgrown with grass.
sleep,
they were sitting together.
Hands on knees,
they looked at the clouds.
Down at the cinema cripples
waiting for the truck.
Mercala on the inclined bank
near the brick bushes.
Above the pink spire of the bank
crow curled, screaming.
Cars drove in the center
to the bath on three bridges.
The bell rang in the church:
electrician got married there.
And it was quiet here on the hill,
the wind refreshed them.
Not a whistle around, not a cry.
Only a mosquito buzzed.
The grass was down there,
where they always sat.
Black spots everywhere -
eda left them.
Cows are always the place
wiped with their tongue.
Everyone knew it,
but they didn't know about it.
Cigarette butts, match and fork
were covered with sand.
The bottle blackened in the distance,
kicked off toe.
Hearing barely a lowing,
they went down to the bushes
and dispersed in silence -
as they sat there.
_________
Down different slopes,
happened to step sideways.
The bushes closed in front of them
and parted again.
Slipped in the grass shoes,
water glistening between stones.
One reached the path,
another at the same moment of the pond.
It was the evening of several weddings
(it seems, there were two).
A dozen shirts and dresses
loomed down in the grass.
The sunset has already faded
and the clouds beckoned.
Steam rose from the ground,
and the bell kept ringing.
One, crunch, stumbling,
other, smoking a cigarette -
that evening they went down
on different slopes of the hill.
Went down different slopes,
space grew between them.
But scary, simultaneously
the air shook their cry.
Suddenly the bushes burst open,
the bushes suddenly burst open.
Like they woke up,
and their sleep was full of torment.
The bushes burst open with a howl,
like the earth opened up.
Two appeared before each,
iron in the hands of moving.
One with an ax was met,
and blood ran down the clock,
the other from a broken heart
died instantly.
The killers dragged them into the grove
(blood ran down their arms)
and thrown into an overgrown pond.
And there they met again.
_________
Still making their way to the touch
to the seats at the table of the grooms,
and the terrible news to the square
the shepherds have already brought.
The evening dawn shone
flocks of dense clouds.
The cows stood in the bushes
and eagerly licked the blood.
The electrician ran down the slope
and brother-in-law behind him in the bushes.
Bride downstairs pissed off
stood alone in flowers.
Old woman, covered with a blanket,
twirled the braid before her,
and a drunken wedding
followed them up the hill.
The branches cracked under them,
they rushed, like crazy.
Cows in the bushes mooed
and quickly descended to the pond.
And suddenly everyone saw clearly
(reigned around the heat):
blackened in green duckweed,
like a door to darkness, hole.
_________
Who will lift them up,
get from the bottom of the pond?
Death, like water above them,
they have water in their stomachs.
Death is in every word,
in the stem, wrapped around a pole.
Death in blood,
death in every cow.
Death in vain
(as if looking for thieves).
Will be red from now on
the milk of these cows.
In red, red wagon
from the red, red paths,
in red, red can -
red water for children.
Death in voices and eyes.
Collar full of death. —
So the city will pay them:
death is hard for them.
Gotta pick them up, would raise.
But how to overcome sadness:
if murder on the wedding day,
milk to be red.
_________
Death is not a nightmare skeleton
with a long braid in the dew.
Death is that bush,
in which we all stand.
This is not a funeral cry,
and also not a black bow.
Death is a crow's cry,
black - to the red bank.
Death is all machines,
it's a prison and a garden.
Death is all men,
their ties are hanging.
Death is glass in the bath,
in a church, in houses - in a row!
Death is everything, what's with us -
for they will not see.
Death is our strength,
this is our work and sweat.
Death is our veins,
our soul and flesh.
We won't go up the hill anymore,
lights in our houses.
It is not we who do not see them -
they don't see us.
_________
roses, geranium, hyacinths,
peonies, lilac, iris -
on their terrible zinc coffin -
roses, geranium, narcissus,
lilies, as if from bass,
the smell of them is spicy and wild,
levkoy, orchids, asters,
roses and a bunch of carnations.
Please take them to the shore,
entrust them to heaven.
Throw them in the river, into the river,
she will carry to the forests.
To the black forest channels,
to the dark forest houses,
to the dead forest swamps,
into the distance - to the Baltic hills.
_________
The hills are our youth,
we chase her, without recognizing.
Hills are hundreds of streets,
the hills are a host of ditches.
The hills are pain and pride.
The hills are the end of the earth.
The higher you climb them,
the more you see them.
The hills are our misery.
The hills are our love.
The hills are a cry, sobbing,
go away, come again.
Light and immensity of pain,
our longing and fear,
our dreams and grief,
all this is in their bushes.
The hills are eternal glory.
Always put on display
right to our suffering.
The hills are above us.
Their peaks are always visible,
visible in the darkness.
Prisno, yesterday and now
we are moving down the slope.
Death is only plains.
Life is hills, hills.
