Like liquid glass, waters of sea,
Made of the tinted-bottle color,
Was pouring softly, heavily -
The appellation of this: summer.
And ships, appearing like white dots,
Forming the distance with their presence.
They went somewhere to end of earth -
The appellation of this: heaven.

*****
Like in childhood, I am walking barefoot
With my feet feeling the trail.
For long time I did not walk like this.
For long time I was not this way.
Balmy breeze in my face is blowing.
I forgot how old I've become
And perhaps it's the joy of living
Wafting at me from the ground.
It's the day, it's the path, it's the summer...
Every blade of grass, dear to me...
And my bare-footed childhood
Smiling, is looking at me.

*****
From the bluish distance blown,
Wind, arrives on a spring day.
Arms and elbows smell of orange,
Air is full of jasmine smell.
Not agreeing with my years
My soul sings and sings and sings:
And the leaves' rustle makes clear
Something tender's whisperings.

*****
I live in condition
Of mood schizophrenia:
As if there's no distance
Between Russia and Israel.
I live in two mentalities
In two different spaces and times.
In two "hard" realities,
In noise of different tribes.
In news political
(From darkness where I can't see)
About both Russia and Israel
I say the word "We."
And I watch TV programs
Like fog that is full of blood:
All is woeful and horrible
Both here and there it's bad
Like in a monster fairy tale,
Like in a tale of horror -
The Arabian terrorism
And the Chechnya war
And I live in condition
Of split apart soul -
As if there is no distance
Between the two countries I know.

*****
Again - a cricket, or else maybe a cicada
Again - the moon and palms above my head...
And in my dream, blockade of Leningrad, and
The icy chill is blowing from the street.
Though life has not been smooth in any manner,
And flow of time has changed so much, I know,
Within my soul - I'm still a Leningrader,
And... cricket sounds just like the Metronome.

By Ella Odeyash
Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat

On Thursday, January 4, 2024 at 12:35:59 PM UTC-5, Ilya Shambat wrote:
>
> Like liquid glass, waters of sea,
> Made of the tinted-bottle color,
> Was pouring softly, heavily -
> The appellation of this: summer.
> And ships, appearing like white dots,
> Forming the distance with their presence.
> They went somewhere to end of earth -
> The appellation of this: heaven.
>
> *****
> Like in childhood, I am walking barefoot
> With my feet feeling the trail.
> For long time I did not walk like this.
> For long time I was not this way.
> Balmy breeze in my face is blowing.
> I forgot how old I've become
> And perhaps it's the joy of living
> Wafting at me from the ground.
> It's the day, it's the path, it's the summer...
> Every blade of grass, dear to me...
> And my bare-footed childhood
> Smiling, is looking at me.
>
> *****
> From the bluish distance blown,
> Wind, arrives on a spring day.
> Arms and elbows smell of orange,
> Air is full of jasmine smell.
> Not agreeing with my years
> My soul sings and sings and sings:
> And the leaves' rustle makes clear
> Something tender's whisperings.
>
> *****
> I live in condition
> Of mood schizophrenia:
> As if there's no distance
> Between Russia and Israel.
> I live in two mentalities
> In two different spaces and times.
> In two "hard" realities,
> In noise of different tribes.
> In news political
> (From darkness where I can't see)
> About both Russia and Israel
> I say the word "We."
> And I watch TV programs
> Like fog that is full of blood:
> All is woeful and horrible
> Both here and there it's bad
> Like in a monster fairy tale,
> Like in a tale of horror -
> The Arabian terrorism
> And the Chechnya war
> And I live in condition
> Of split apart soul -
> As if there is no distance
> Between the two countries I know.
>
> *****
> Again - a cricket, or else maybe a cicada
> Again - the moon and palms above my head...
> And in my dream, blockade of Leningrad, and
> The icy chill is blowing from the street.
> Though life has not been smooth in any manner,
> And flow of time has changed so much, I know,
> Within my soul - I'm still a Leningrader,
> And... cricket sounds just like the Metronome.
>
> By Ella Odeyash
> Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat

Superb piece, thanks for bringing to America readers