A blue forest. Silent. More silent than the heavens.
The odor of root-orgies, parasites, moldering clouds.
On the edge, a lonely hut. Blind and deathly white.
Green lightning withers in blighted blossoms.

A door torn open. A gilded squirrel jumps innocently by.
Stands frozen with fear. Listens to the silent madness of the forest.
The coolness is acrid and sick.
God’s Presence lights the doorway.
Above it a deep old man, hanged.

– N. B. Minkov. In Our Days

translated by Jordan Finkin

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