NO, WE DON’T CHOOSE THE TIMES WE BEAR…
No, we don’t choose the times we bear —
They’re forged in fire, built from despair.
And still, we cheer the newborn light,
While echoes fold into the night,
In dreams, in day — the cycles pass —
Yes, time does choose. It chooses us.
*
Once more — the clocks strike deep with distant sound,
and people cry, with various wings, and flee.
Life laughs — or lies defeated on the ground.
I know it all — but what will be won’t be.
There will be more: fine dreams not yet begun,
an unseen choir will chant eternal songs,
above the wreckage of a land long gone,
along the path where countless wings belong.
**
…and they locked me up — and in such a time,
where there’s neither light
joy
shame nor compassion,
where fragments of a broken passion
still await for the bells to chime
still they wait — for any sign of light,
for a glimpse of valor lost from sight,
where there’s neither light
joy
shame nor compassion,
scattering into pretense delight
***
Maple seeds, the rowan ripening…
Blend into time — and barely be seen.
You’ll grow half-aware, both sunlit and green,
Perhaps you’ll be real — in ways yet unseen.
In your vanishing, time’s not to blame,
…Before the maple’s birth, the rowan’s flame.
****
No, the world won’t be the same — bookish, careless, without blame,
gentle and unscary, berry-bright and pure delight.
Nicely lazily and kind — just and fair in heart and mind,
Not a hint of fear in sight…
Actually… maybe — just be
light and just, nicely lazy* and free,
As the summer, splendid, bookish, and unscary,
Tender, bright and gentle, ever true…
Like your world
The one you knew.
*(Well, just a little…)
*****
In the meadow of evening light,
No kiss could ever go amiss.
The clouds, so clear — a sonnet’s delight —
Near February’s cherry bliss.
You’ll kneel before its blooming chime —
Who’d dare foretell the break of dawn?
…In this world, just you, me and time
Or maybe time itself is forlorn.
P.S.
When the suns fall to darkness, so treacherous, vile,
And despair locks our hearts in its cold, bitter fear,
Come closer, my love; let me hold you awhile,
We’ll draw a hearth to bring warmth ever near.
We’ll trace out a circle of sweet nothings and light,
Where the blessed delight of our home makes the shadows seem far.
Even using our blood for ink, we continue to write —
Still living beneath this worn-out, weary star.
Ekaterina Velmezova, University of Lausanne & University of Tartu, translated by Emily Wright
The original texts (2024) are published in Russian in July 2025 in the journal Artikuljacija (Артикуляция)
Edited by: Olga Burenina-Petrova, University of Zurich & University of Konstanz and Anna Krutsch, Educational Institution called „FAB gGmbH für Frauen Arbeit Bildung“, Friedberg