Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
What that street is called
You’re like a house-coat, you are worn, God is above you and inside.
You’re delicate, frail, you crumble like a porcelain cup – God’s glow
Is shining through it, probably, it’s all becoming clearer now.
He’s pecking through your mortal shell before our very eyes,
You’re stooping – and no wonder! – look who’s sitting on your shoulders.
Oh! I’d accept that burden, but my name’s not written down,
Let’s stroll along the boulevard, watch the band play in the rain,
- Elena Shvarts