Enigma by Yury Ko

     Heat, wavy, spotty.   I was lost in the sea desert, for a long time... then it was better... Lord, how changeable your temper is: you give light, but then you send darkness after you, and move, move horses...
     And now they are performing a worthless ritual over what was reputed to be a man.
     An empty case — fragments of bodies, fragments of souls.
     But everything will be done according to the stencil.
     They hurriedly comb their hair, press their chins, put them in an old black suit in a coffin, cry, the music will howl roughly, the wind will pass with dust and the drunkard will beat the lid with his crooked nails.
     Where am I?  Where is someone who sang and suffered whilst looking at the world?  An attempt expired in the thirst — the only, unique, so it seemed.
     Naive questions in an age that replaced the soul with the pilgrimage of neurons.  Centuries go by, questions remain, growing out from the depths of untamed consciousness.
     From those depths — to an ephemeral fate.
     And in all partings, torn, languishing, I drown in complicity and pity all of us.  This pity, like the sting of the oldest bee, stuck; got stuck and did not pull out a sob.

     Heat, red waves.  Drink, sip of water, well, someone would have guessed.  Is there anyone in this world? 
      Lips touched life-giving moisture.  Dreaming?  Thank you, Lord, for the dream too.
     Heat, hesitating, retreats.  A face appears through a pink mirage, and then Herself, in white.  From where?  May be from the sky?  Yes, from the sky, such ones are now only in heaven.
     They are more rough on the ground; painted, with cigarettes in their mouths.
     Speak, speak, stranger.  Not a voice — a flute.  And hands —  there is no touch more tender.
     What does she remind?  God forbid to remember, thus it is not in vain that our soul of the female gender...

     Summer of a distant childhood.
     Forgotten grandmother.  A gentle touch of lips on a child's ear, caring hands and a secret voice confessing biblical myths.  And above us in full breadth is the starry wave of August.  It smells of herbs, you can hear the rustle of leaves, a dog barked in the next street, hens cackled sleepily, and after all everything was quiet again.  The world listens to God.  I feel like a grain of sand in complete unity with the world.  I do not need faith in God, I feel Him with my body.
     Children's happiness is joy of the feeling of life itself.   Later, as an adult, under a flood of memories, I glorified life.  Glorified like the sun and love, like the dearness of words given by fate, like the rustle of herbs disturbed by a thunderstorm, like the tireless call of truth.

     Memories hurt my heart...
     I see again my beloved faces, I hear the sad native melody.
     You stand alone, leaning against a mountain ash, the wind sways the dress, pressing it to your hip...
     Hear me.
     Do not grieve that dashing times have come to us, because life is in flood again, well, we are a tear in it.  And in a seething stream past countries alien to us, we are carried in turmoil to the oceans...
     Hear.
     While I am disturbing you with my memory, you do not rush to betray longing into oblivion.  With an invisible thread again, perhaps, it will connect our two ruined souls and depart, leaving in your heart a pattern of sorrows from unfulfilled hopes...

     The thread breaks.  Catching on to a fading memory.  You wave your hand to me from the hill, April rings around, April sings, and swept the crimson blizzard as if for no reason at sunset.
     You reminded me of the melody of love that sounded in my soul for many years.
     What happened next?
     I remember the flame, the ashes after the flame...
     But something must remain.  Otherwise, what's the point of everything?
     Never did prayers.  But in the depths of my soul, at the very foundation, I always felt something turned with my whole being towards the heart of the universe.
     Here is bel canto.  Paradise is somewhere near.  Hell and heaven are always near, in our souls, for sure.

     Autumnal window of loneliness.  A bird flew to the branch just under the window.  And then she looked at me, as if she had come for this.  She looked at her with clear eyes.  Heart lost its rhythm.  Strange bird, never seen one like it.  And she kept looking, and in that sad look I suddenly felt tenderness.  Her eyes looked painfully familiar.  Mum, — I whispered, and horripilation goes through my body.  Inescapable longing swept over the soul.
     Why did I remember the last thing so sharply, sharp on my part, completely unnecessary.  Mother.  Did you care about that unwashed little thing.  Life was leaving.  You knew and were silent, afraid to bring confusion into the soul of your son, protecting him, embarrassed to worry about yourself.
     When she was interested in my affairs —  I just brushed off.  At times, when she was worried and rejoice at a newspaper in which the name of her son was printed.  Now I'm ready to dump all the invented nonsense in front of you.  Perhaps it would be upsetting.
     And after all, I am ready to declamate poems that were written in distant youth in each of sleepless nights.  Why didn't I show it?  I was stupid, in accordance with common ideas, I believed that you are not on par.  Because you didn't know who Kierkegaard was, you didn't read Kafka. 
     In recent years, she has been repeating lines from the Gospel more and more.  And looked at me with a timid hope of understanding.
     Mum, mummy, how can I explain to you that your son joined the intelligentsia.  For what?  If only he knew.  We roll through life in a ravel of desires and passions, shrouded in a mist of reflection.
     God! Yes, I just now realized that all the truths of the world stand nothing against motherly love.  Everything pales in this comparison.
     Why is there so little of true maternal love in our lifes.

     Delirium remains.  Strong medicinal smell.  Ado is all around, needles in veins, a mask.  God, can't you just leave quietly?
     And again it floats — now it's darkness.  And in the gaps between the waves, moving away,  She again —  incomprehensible.
    — What is your name? — I send on my last breath.
    — E-ni-gma, — echoes far away and calms down.


     transl. by Ed. Labintzeff