I know not whether I’ll ever write a response
To that letter
loud
Like the rolling brooks of a distant land
Unknown and imperishable
A moist word freezes on the lips
like the tear
Of the missus in the sketch by Gustav Klimt
Vertically flow the rivers
Like trees standing guard
And you, glancing at the weed,
Discerned in it the mysterious
firmament and its immortal import
You called it a temple, called it
A Supreme vision
Was that illumination
Or rather sacred ignorance?
In one hall,
On a Dürer painting there sprawl threads of verdant grass
On the one beside it (through the one) a hare lies in resignation
The poet and the hero, looking at the dusty shard of creation
Can make it a little brighter
— Daria Platonova Dugina, January 2018
[Translated by Jafe Arnold]