Dance, carpenter, until the sun stands Poem by Serhiy Zhadan

Dance, carpenter, until the sun stands
above the largest bridge god created.
Dance, Homer already described everything.
The city was up all night like a love-struck teenager;
a stranger steps onto the bridge.
Vendors carry red roosters in black bags to slaughter.
Do you remember the words from that song,
carpenter, flowing from a morning window?
Do you remember how you ran away from school,
how you walked down a sandy bank?
She's the only one who loves you, carpenter,
in the whole world, the only one.
At night, her street smells like bread and garlic, like a mother's heart.
Dance in the middle of this world
that spins tirelessly and aimlessly.
A boy leaves his parents' home
like a morning sun escaping darkness.
Everyone, carpenter, has a mark, the mark of love and solitude.
When your son is born, he'll explain why.
And long nights of tenderness, when you called her by name,
called as if you're inventing a language for the deaf.
Now you sing this song like it's only yours,
that it was you who found her in one of your books.
And dancing takes away your breath and you're sweating.
And the smell of seawater weaves through the air like a stream of blood.
And the whole world may fit on this square on a Saturday morning.
And when your son is born—you'll bring him here too.
Dance, carpenter, vendors shout, dance, the butchers get excited.
Someone's weaving this world like a basket from green vine.
You remember the song all dictionaries started from.
She's the only one who loves you, whoever your son may be.
Everything we know how to do, everything we know, everything we love.
everything you're afraid of, carpenter, everything you wanted.
The sun beats its wings like a beheaded rooster,
it welcomes this strange world, the fairest of all worlds.