Irina Zhadan

Letters from Paradise Irina Zhadan

Life is fleeting. What yesterday seemed unshakable, today can be destroyed and dissolve in the air, like smoke. There is nothing permanent neither in nature, nor in that which is created by man, nor in relations of people. All our lives we are in the streams of energy, time; The streams of water, wind, heat, cold are falling upon us; We are captured alternately by violent Vortices of pain, fear, desire, hatred and love. All our lives we travel and end our days in a foreign land, even if we never left our native village. Everything that surrounded us in our youth, merciless streams of time carried away, and now around us - strangers and an unfamiliar landscape. But the wanderer also has joys. The sun rises from a light mist over the river, to the rapturous singing of a bird choir; A forest lake with white, cold water lilies; A road that runs among the green or ripening fields; Bright, cheerful bonfire in the clearing; New people who bring grief and joy to our lives-and, perhaps, gratitude or light sorrow. There is no point in sitting on the road and crying - time moves towards us, shortening the days allowed to us. And the end of the journey is near - in the embrace of Him Who will wipe our tears on the threshold of the heavenly Fatherland; He alone is faithful and unchanging in His love for us, the wanderer children in the earth He created.