City a constellation.
How often, lost, did we walk
toward the light of the buildings, of which
there was left not a stone! . . .
And who will believe that it was the light we followed?
How often did we go looking
for the mouth of the river,
a bridge, and a peer
in the northern deserts of yards,
but who will believe that there had been a river?
It is only through us that the cities
transgress into oblivion.
We pronounce them
and find them different. However,
next morning you come to the square and recognize it:
Lindens at the end of blooming stand golden,
Translated from the Ukrainian by Nina Shevchuk-Murray