[She's fifteen, sells flowers at the train station] Poem by Serhiy Zhadan

She's fifteen, sells flowers at the train station.
Sun and berries sweeten the oxygen beyond the mines.
Trains stop for a moment, move further on.
Soldiers go to the East, soldiers go to the West.

Nobody stays in her city.
Nobody wants to take her with them.
She thinks, standing in the morning at her spot,
even this territory, it turns out, may be desirable, dear.

It turns out, you don't want to leave it for a long time,
in fact, you want to hold on to it for dear life,
it turns out, this old train station and an empty
summer panorama are enough for love.

Nobody gives her a good reason for this.
Nobody brings flowers to her older brother's grave.
In a dream, you hear that motherland forms in darkness,
like the spine of a teenager living in a boarding house.

Light and darkness are formed, take shape together.
Summer sun flows into winter.
Everything that happens today, to everyone, is called time.
The main thing is understanding that all this happens to them.

Her memory is being formed, consolation formed.
Everyone she knows was born in this city.
At night she recalls everyone who left this place.
When there is no one left to remember, she falls asleep.