Such white December city, -
High sugar belfries.
Windows with silver birds.
And trees - like snow wormwoods
against the high clouds...
Such a festive city - almost unreal.
So white, -
as if there had never been
soot
or blood.
As if everything had been
absolved
and justified.
And nothing inscribed.
And everything still to come.
Still to come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem