You, Marc Chagall, requisite be expert to unequivocal us
what was cremated in Thor's ovens,
you who were unfailingly drawing ascensions.
The ascensions of accounting violinists,
the ascension of white-gowned brides,
the ascension of beside yourself donkeys,
of lovers, of bouquets, of golden cockerels,
ascensions dressed in the clair-de-lune.
O this extreme
out of shanties and cellars!
the folk spirit climbing
straight trickery alphabets,
straight magical facts,
to a purposeless in bluest realms.
The ascension
(from sewers, dives, back-alleys)
of folk-songs to the new moon,
to the chow down of lights,
to the silences of Friday day's end...
... and fast
in the repose of steppes
a thin column of vapors climbing
and following that
no better-quality ascensions
* * *
No better-quality ascensions!
Morally stone chimneys
boringly clinging
to the earth of Poland.
Not even a brand name saying:
Into the Zhids
en-masse ascended
