Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices

Maximilian Voloshin


Translated by Alex Sitnitsky


* * *


The evening light fed hills with bile, with ancient gold.
Red tuffs of shaggy grass and climbing moss are blushing
Like locks of reddish skin. In fire, shrubs are crushing.
And water is like steel — to melt it’s own mould.
The boulder heaps and blocks of barren cliffs
Lay in the hollows, sullen, arcane, and dreary.
Those wings of dusk, what kind of hints they carry?
There bare jaw grins, here heavy paw lifts.
There is a dubious hill... might be the bloated ribs...
Upon its bowed spine the wool of thyme creeps.
Who dwells in such a place, a titan or a beast?
Though freedom should be close, behind the water border.
The tired Ocean’s chest sighs heavily. The breeze
Brings smell of rotten grass and sharp iodine’s odor.

The Old Letters

I look over them for hours —
Those old letters, distant words;
They have smell of dying flowers,
They have loveliness that hurts.
I adore the patterned lines
With the rustle of thirsty herbs.
Rapid letters’ dear signs
Gently whisper a sad verse.
They have tired, charming aura
That appeals so much to me...
They are withering, poor flowers,
Falling from the knowledge tree.