Poetry » Margarita Serafimova »


A mirror of the raven was the azure clear sea –

clean, lucently black.

The beginning and the end were turning into one.


The curls of fate.

They are falling about her face,

and she is flipping them back, one by one.


Golden were they, or silver, the tall grasses

that, in the shadow, were blinding me?

Before or after this life was I?


Five O’Clock in the Morning on Sunday

The unknown was not becoming known,

the day was wrestling with the night,

and time was quietly watching them,

certain of its own worth.


In the dark,

tears broke through,

and then, the day carried the day.