BROOKLYN, 1994 Oh Lord, my God! You see my sins that multiply like sandgrains. Here, like an ocean wave my transgressions break upon my head! I meditate on this on a wide deserted beach where swollen-headed seagulls strut or lie about in the sand. Now one, now another, spreading grey wings with wide white edges, flaps up to the rumbling frothy border and, with several stabs of its long sharp beak, cracks crabs cast up by the breakers. When we say, O Lord, that our sins outnumber the sands of the sea, it is only an image, a cliche. Even if my foot feels sand slipping away, what is that to Thee? Nevertheless, this sand, both whole and pulverized, vast and minute, piled up and washed away, the detritus (the corpses, really) of myriad intricate shells, the flour of siliceous stone, this sand--absorbing everything, storing nothing-- isn't it analogous to the triviality of our life? But Lord--what is the meaning of these slow, cautious birds with their twisted orange knots of knees?-- these creatures adapted to flocking flight and solitary stroll alike. © 1996 Boris Khersonsky. All rights reserved. Translation by Ruth Kreuzer and Dale Hobson.