All bridges burnt, these fords cannot be crossed, It’s crowded – the skulls alone shine black. All entrances and exists have been closed, There’s just one way – together, with the pack. And as two horses, harnessed in a chain, Depicting how the world is tightly joined, The pack is moving on the circle in its lane... This circle’s large, without a reference point. The palette runs, caught in the pouring rain, And bursting gallops play a polonaise, No rhythms, colors, scents or tones remain, And from the air, all oxygen’s erased. No thoughtlessness and no inspired devotion Can ever break this circular closed set. But is this, after all, - perpetual motion, This obstinate and endless drive ahead?
© Andrey Kneller. Translation, ?