When writing poetry in not
one's mother's tongue,
A poet enters lands with many questions ---
In the domain where one does not belong,
With words created by another nation.
It is a strange and difficult pursuit,
Like being forever a blind-folded painter,
Or a deaf composer at a concert pit,
Creating music that he cannot enter.
But our ancient stormy continent
Gives common roots to very many nations ---
Whatever conflicts happen, at the end,
We are the same, despite all wars and tensions.
And I attempt to sing between the tongues
To bring across the flare of Russian songs.
If you have any comments on this poem, Valerie Livina would
be pleased to hear from you.