If the Raven
He's knocking at my window with his fist,
His tentacles are snaking through the kitchen...
He always starves — that is the Raven's gist,
He gulps the fears that we are so rich in.
The Raven's eyes are black, his beak is strong,
His wings are battered, forceful and dynamic,
This knock at my old window is a storm,
A prophecy of feeble spring and panic.
We give him seeds but that is not his choice —
He has been craving meat for many years.
He turns all dreams out there, and his rough voice
Is loud and scary for our gentle ears.
And you can try to close your window frame
But it won't help — there hovers this strange bird.
Our midnight wine, so bitter and aflame,
Is just a memory of beauty and absurd.
And when the dawn appears in silent skies,
Your soul returns from Neverland again.
The Raven's battered skeleton will rise
To heaven where the sun turns to the rain.
Don't put the food onto your windowsill,
While January ice is bright and thin
And when the Raven loses his last quill,
A newborn raven will arise and grin.
(с) Nataliya Bukhtoyarova, translation, 2023
