Today, they are all flying slow and low,
Casting shadows longer than their own lives.
The green lacewing hurries.
She still has work to do.
The young bumblebee fastens his belt
Ready for take-off.
I alone sit motionless in hat and gloves,
End of September,
And feel like an alien on this garden planet.
The other question, which you don't ask but I answer--
[LAUGHTER]
What about politics or poetry and political poetry?
Or, for example, do I write poems
which has to do with what happened to me and the situation
in Belarus or something?
And this poem I wrote when I just couldn't go back,
and it was the first month, September.
Everything was so, yeah, hard to perceive,
hard to understand what to do, where to go.
And it doesn't look like a political poem
or a poem about the--
I don't know-- hard situation, but this
is how poetry works for me.