Ice at the top and also at the bottom. Stuck in between. Which way shall I break through? Must reach the surface: hope is not forgotten, Just wait until the visas are renewed. The ice above me, crack and break to shatters! Iím sweating like a plowman with his plow. Iíll come to you as ships return in ballads, And Iíll remember every song somehow. Iím forty-odd, just shy of fifty slightly, And kept alive by you and God for twelve. I have my songs to face the Lord Almighty, I have a clause to vindicate myself.
© Kirill Tolmachev. Translation, 2024