poem by Mykyta Ryzhykh

***

You were not born yet, so sleep.

You will be lulled by the winds of wandering on the rocks of the future.

The winds will age you.

Posthumous ants will eat you.

You are blown away by memory.

You will become a dot.

Now sleep.

You may not be born, you may remain crippled for the rest of your life – such are the bloody colors of birth.

Now sleep.

Until you had to become the product of the work of historians, do not move, so as not to wake up the minds of the neighbors.

Circulatory system of sleep. Lymph of consciousness.

We were all fish. We should all become birds.

Myopia of nothingness. The blindness of the stones we once were.

The strength of the stones we once were.

Kill me with your love

You were not born yet, so sleep.