When the norther came into the valley from the blue hills, she knew that it was he, who thought of her. She had never been over those hills, and it was only the wind, which brought her from unknown distances different smells and sounds: either the juniper's harsh aroma and grasshoppers' crepitation at midday, or the cuckoo's sklent voice in the sonorous forest, a chiffon rustle of quivering dragonflies on a shiny clearing, or a kittling smell of dust from roads she had neither walked, nor ridden And one day, a pissabed's white fuzz came down to her shoulder, though in their valley, all dandelions were still yellowing on the kelly green meadows.

There would be no meetings any more,  she knew it for certain, but she also knew for sure that he would never forget her, and that the wind would keep coming from the blue northern hills again and again for all her long life.

Igor Savchenko

Minsk  Warsaw  Baden-Baden  Minsk

May-June 2001

Russian-English translation: Andrej Bursau