O Lord! I have seen
the convex shards of bronze bugs
in the withered grass.
The golden fur of a bumblebee husk
has crumbled between my fingers;
a layered hailstone has fallen
from Thy palm to mine.
O Father! I prophesy the autumn;
Father, I prophesy a dessicated leaf,
a leaf, lightly born on the wind,
will fall upon the house of wickedness
and demolish the roof according to Thy word.
© 1996 Boris Khersonsky. All rights reserved.
Translation by Ruth Kreuzer and Dale Hobson.