My Day
Kadya Molodovsky
1935
My day—
Is punctured like a sieve,
And ridiculed like a whim.
May winter whiteness blossom,
May autumns turn gray,
May summers whistle—
Become nightingales.
When a rye-wind
Would have twisted my heart,
Intoxicated it,
Transformed it into summer—
Here, at the end of the street,
Three women stretched out their fists to me
From three wasted rooms,
As…
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