It was snowing too insistently,
snowflakes almost as big as the eye,
over nostrils, over half-open lips,
over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,
exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.
I had the profile of a porcelain statue
like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.
After a while I started to breathe roughly,
choked first while crying, then while sighing
and finally while hiccuping.
Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,
or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.
How could he possibly hide in my blood then
when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,
when I had sipped milk foam my whole childhood
without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?
How could that man travel between my heart’s millstones
without being ground down completely?
Now only tears cling to my nostrils, over half-open eyelids
like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.
Not a single barrier, not a single one-way sign,
not a single red traffic light
or at least a church with holy relics.
