~ Daniil Andreev

The predawn breeze caresses eternally sacred stones.
The muezzin raises his hands, ready to chant the adhan
over somber Galilee, where time quietly flows
through Cana's and Bethlehem's ashes. He calls: "Allah-il-Allah".

Like a rose mirage, Damascus groves and temples
will shimmer. Chador-clad women bead gems, never in rush.
The breeze blows now and then, and waves gently bring their favors;
the summoning trumpets of Angel, Lion, and Eagle are hushed.

Yet, fishing nets remain wistful, just as when the Lamb was slain;
the Crusaders' coffins slumber, steeped in cedar and myrrh.
And crowds of motley supplicants time and time again
will scurry to His Sepulcher from different ends of the earth.

~ Joseph Brodsky

Stars hadn't gone dark yet.
Stars were where they belonged in,
when roosters were waking up and
shouting throaty songs in
the hennery, perched ceremoniously.
...The silence died out,
just like cathedral's quiet
does with the first choral sound,
echoing gloriously.

Having abandoned warm blankets,
grouchy and half-sleeping,
plowmen harnessed their cattle.
It was in the beginning.
The day broke as though a new egg,
revealing the orange yolk, meaning
the sun was rising; a duet
of skylarks
must have been singing.

Roosters usually fancied
grains of pearls over millet,
with their roostery senses
they searched for them here and there  
dunking into the dung. Yet,
grains were there to reclaim,
grains were there to extract, and,
at sunrise, they would proclaim:    
"We've found them all by ourselves
and husked them with a great artfulness.
So we’re boasting to everyone else          
about this fortune of ours."

In this throaty chime,
performed for eons,
repeatedly,
I see the fabric of time,
discovered by roosters unwittingly.

Today—just today—inasmuch as
my whimsical desire is concerned,
accepting gifts and souvenirs such as:
maple leaves, breath of moose (I've learned

it's kind of good for being Canada-sick),
honey crullers or, for that matter,
a double-double. You've got to have a lick
of ice cream at... oh, I don't remember,

I forgot the name, just know that Bloor
is gracefully crossed there by Spadina;
and don't misjudge me as a boor,
but promptly ship it all to China.

Make sure to toss on top of that
iridescent vapor from Niagara;
it's not like I feel sad or mad,
but things will definitely shine gladder.

Breath of moose can go in balloons,
and vapor too can be encapsulated;
and after many Chinese moons
my birthday will get canadated.

To the one-time maxim "to not hurt"
I added "unfairly" after a short
consideration.
I guess it's a sign of maturation.

So if, incidentally, you've been
hurting irresponsibly – you better think
about precision,
it's time for grown-up decisions

like starting hurting fairly, thoughtfully, gracefully.