To know that you still lie there beyond the scorched mountain Poem by Serhiy Zhadan

To know that you still lie there beyond the scorched mountain,
even now easily reached by the road, zigzagged, old, the city
where I grew up, a life that seemed to be a game.

But who will let me reach your limits now?
Who will watch me from your windows?
What joy is there in returning to the city of the dead, what's the point?

Betrayed by you, cast out past your outskirts,
cut off from your tenements and boulevards.
Your people wear their holiday clothes,
the ground shudders from strikes.

But you still don't see the great shadow
that will cover your streets and squares,
and I stand beyond the scorched mountain, under the rays of the sun,
and I lament you, my city—hateful, dearest.

Maybe I'm not the only one who laments, maybe.

I don't have a home anymore, I have only a memory.
But when they fire from your blocks, damn it, how they shoot.
How well they sleep now, in my house,
in the city where all names are familiar, all addresses known.

When you, god, look into a mirror,
what do you see in your image?
Woe unto you, the city forgotten by all.

Woe unto your women who give birth in a time of pogrom.
The city of betrayal, the city of sorrow, the city of poison.
Woe unto all who won't come back to their homes.

Silent evenings in July.
Golden stars among the dense leaves.
To know that black rain will flood your backyard.
To know that it won't pass over anyone.