Rug Hydrangea - Alexander Vvedensky

I regret that I’m not a beast,

running along a blue path,

telling myself to believe,

and my other self to wait a little,

I’ll go out with myself to the forest

to examine the insignificant leaves.      

I regret that I’m not a star,

running along the vaults of the sky,

in search of the perfect nest

it finds itself and earth’s empty water,

no one has ever heard of a star giving out a squeak,

its purpose is to encourage the fish with its silence.

And then there’s this grudge that I bear,

that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.

I regret I’m not a roof,

falling apart little by little,

which the rain soaks and softens,

whose death is not sudden.

I don’t like the fact that I’m mortal,

I regret that I am not perfect.

Much much better, believe me,

is a particle of day a unit of night.

I regret that I’m not an eagle,

flying over peak after peak,

to whom comes to mind

a man observing the acres.

I regret I am not an eagle,

flying over lengthy peaks,

to whom comes to mind

a man observing the acres.

You and I, wind, will sit down together

on this pebble of death.

It’s a pity I’m not a grail

I don’t like that I am not pity.

I regret not being a grove,

which arms itself with leaves.

I find it hard to be with minutes,

they have completely confused me.

It really upsets me terribly

that I can be seen in reality.

And then there’s this grudge that I bear,

that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.

What scares me is that I move

not the way that do bugs that are beetles,

or butterflies and babystrollers

and not the way that do bugs that are spiders.

What scares me is that I move

very unlike a worm,

a worm burrows holes in the earth

making small talk with her.

Earth, where are things with you,

says the cold worm to the earth,

and the earth, governing those that have passed,

perhaps keeps silent in reply,

it knows that it’s all wrong.

I find it hard to be with minutes,

they have completely confused me.

I’m frightened that I’m not the grass that is grass,

I’m frightened that I’m not a candle.

I’m frightened that I’m not the candle that is grass,

to this I have answered,

and the trees sway back and forth in an instant.

I’m frightened by the fact that when my glance

falls upon two of the same thing

I don’t notice that they are different,

that each lives only once.

I’m frightened by the fact that when my glance

falls upon two of the same thing

I don’t see how hard they are trying

to resemble each other.

I see the world askew

and hear the whispers of muffled lyres,

and having by their tips the letters grasped

I lift up the word wardrobe,

and now I put it in its place,

it is the thick dough of substance.

I don’t like the fact that I’m mortal,

I regret that I am not perfect,

much much better, believe me,

is a particle of day a unit of night.

And then there’s this grudge that I bear

that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.

I’ll go out with myself to the woods

for the examination of insignificant leaves,

I regret that upon these leaves

I will not see the imperceptible words,

which are called accident, which are called immortality,

which are called a kind of roots.

I regret that I’m not an eagle

flying over peak after peak,

to whom came to mind

a man observing the acres.

I’m frightened by the fact that everything becomes dilapidated,

and in comparison I’m not a rarity.

You and I, wind, will sit down together

on this pebble of death.

Like a candle the grass grows up all around,

and the trees sway back and forth in an instant.

I regret that I am not a seed,

I am frightened I’m not fertility.

The worm crawls along behind us all,

he carries monotony with him.

I’m scared to be an uncertainty,

I regret that I am not fire.