The Aurora was the ship of heroes
when we lived in a story.
Boys smelling of testosterone
liked drawing it, but they never saw it.
After a parade, when blank bullets were fired,
they ran to collect cartridges among the soldierly gravestones.
A rose-fingered winged goddess, in saffron colored clothes,
pours dew from golden cups. At school,
we believed in the honor of the shot that started the revolution.
Later, there were no more cradles, and people
swung their small children in swings.
They let them out to tend to animals only when they were older.
While I was an embryo
I would dream about the other side,
with undeveloped eyes
I would see images of paradise.
Those dreams about God
indescribable, making me
believe in his illogical existence
even in the stomach’s cavity, where her animals grazed.
Someone wrote letters to the philosopher –
misfits live underwater,
but words are weak, flabby muscles,
the bones of domesticated mutants.
in the stomachs of cruisers, in golden cups instead of rings,
simultaneous signs of the cross at your gates.
We dyed our hair grey, like that actress from the The Hours,
instead of a plush arch
she bequeathed a rosehip bush
with gently stinging bumblebees.
For twelve summers, I herded my animals, and only now
have I noticed how peacocks call to each other
in the voices of tigers.
© translated by Ada Valaitis