Навіщо. What For

***

This is your head that is aching me

As it contains our worlds today.

Those where there's black rain and white grass,

Where I am not I and where you are not you.

There, thunder, too, is bellowing in the sky

But no one tries to determine its caliber.

And there when strangers do come to your home

They bring hot bread with them.

As you know bread is the head of everything and all.

And my head is also aching

I beat sharp words into it.

To kill this pain at least for a moment.

It will be easier if the rain goes away,

And weakness and night and war.

But before this, the gray oozy fog

That never comes on its own.

10 July 2014