Do the dead divide us from the living, my sister,
my brothers? We all have a tear in our eyes,
even as we lough loudly. Valerija, Sargon,
Gagik, Stevan, Josip… A prayer or a mockery?
Are we returning to Ararat, into the epic
of Gilgamesh? Will this wind, the wind of all winds,
tear away, who knows where, the house under whose roof
our frozen hearts have sought shelter, along with us all?
House of Language
I am building a house anew
Have no other brothers but poets
Have I been left without a language?
Do the dead divide us from the living
We used to read the same poems
The poem was and always will be your only home, Marina Tsvetaeva
Books – angels, house gods
Have no other brothers but poets
Have I been left without a language?
Do the dead divide us from the living
We used to read the same poems
The poem was and always will be your only home, Marina Tsvetaeva
Books – angels, house gods