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When you look out through the bars at the sky,

It’s not bars you see but the sky overhead.

Yesterday’s bread smells of mold and loss,

but tomorrow’s smells like genuine bread.

You say: the sky is a trick of the light.

But the bars are the trick of the light, I say!

Because bars are a hashtag, 

just a habit, right?

And this is the hashtag trending today.

Yet the sky cares nothing for hashtags at all,

the sky has no thought for trends up ahead,

it does not feel the ground where our feet fall,

nor count the centuries and slices of bread.

The sky just draws clouds of cotton wool 

over time — this is all that goes on really.

And the sky does not see any bars at all

when it peers deep into the sky in me.

Translated from Belarusian by Hanna Komar for Index on Censorship in 2023

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When you look at the sky through the bars
You don’t see bars, you see the sky.
Yesterday’s bread smells loss and must,
and tomorrow’s bread smells rye.

You say that the sky is an optic illusion
But the illusion are the bars, believe me!
Because the bars are only a hashtag,
allusion
To the trend that is popular lately.

But the sky doesn’t care about hashtags,
It doesn’t care about any trends,
It doesn’t stand firmly on the ground,
It doesn’t count centuries and bread flakes.

The sky pulls the cloud wool
beyond the time – the only alive.
The sky doesn’t see the bars as well
When it looks in me at my sky.

Translated from Belarusian by Natallia Zalatykh

It’s summer and hell.

The life is on pause.

The news comes like snail.
Much faster comes mail.

The letters bring love.
The news — hell above.
The plans go in vain.
The head goes insane.

The movie’s on war.
The battalions go forth.
Here comes one more flight.
The command is to fight.

Here comes all the hell.
And the enemy’s well.
Take no captives at all.
As the enemies are we all.

Take a seat. Be at home.
Holly heat! Take a pause.
War and tiredness pass.
And we’ll see paradise.

saddened september is sketching

oceans october obeys.

silk in the darkness is rustling

in thin yellow paper of leaves.

sky, tangled blanket, is dreaming

glum lullaby for the sleet.

this world will end. for a new one

i’ll wake you up.

you can sleep.

Translated from Belarusian by Volya

I wish I could write you some verses — and not to be censured since; the chasing knight on the banner is what now they claim “extremist”. It won’t be praised by our postman — my authorship won’t be rewarded. Then not in verse, but in prose; I’m writing to you: “Everything will be alright”.