The way broke the steppe in half, And it is obscure where the end of the way is, - On the way we go on different sides And cannot cross them. How many winters will this way shed light? Somebody should risk - decide... We have to talk with each other - the crossroad is not far off, Cross it, in case it never occured to me! The way, the way across the earth - Across fate with a deep track, - Many have found themselves a fellow-traveller Not for long - but not a life companion. Flash through oneís mind like a smirking calamity, Divorced forever - forked... Where are the necessary words, who finds them first? Again I mist the crossing. The river! - was dispatched to us both like a deliverance, One has only to stretch out the hands... But again, again we stand on different flight decks, - Suggest to us anything! The wind of the Volga, intoxicating and viscous, Whispers into the souls, only prompting: There is not much time - hurry and donít wait on the end of the way, - But who will first risk to get across.
© Elisabeth Jelinek. Translation, 2018