Often when I try to translate Taras Zaitsev's work I am only able to beautifully translate a few lines of a given poem or work. See more here.
This is from a letter Taras wrote to a woman he was courting.
i am doing so very much (slightly) wrong. and i know this. and yet i do it (slightly). and i hate myself for doing it (slightly). and yet i do it (all the same). and i do not wish our nascent little we to go all wrong for my momentary microidiotisms.
you are wondrous. and i do like you, so very hello much. and you seem to like me, which is not surprising, but surprises. and in my surprised delight, i get lost between the subtle differences in our personal languages, where nuances live, and i (for not speaking your tongue, yet) die. i lose my nerve and become an awkward sort, a little uncomfortable in my own skin, and not comfortable enough to access yours and give you the confidence that we are a kind of right. and in that, i throw the rhythm off, slip your grasp, and we go cartwheeling out; and i linger at the periphery, wondering if you'll take my hand again, so we may dance another round. if only, if only you have faith enough to keep stretching your arms out, fingers ready to take mine, just a little longer, until this brief, uneasy phase passes, and i get back to being my more me. i would hate to see us lose out on the potential for grand conspiratorial adventures, and a burgeoning mayhap, because i was a fool...
And from some footnotes in his "grey book"
i wasn't sure,
until you took my hand.
such a simple, thrilling thing.
a perfect moment.
Fingers touched with speculation
The hope beyond comfort, beyond proof, the long supposing...
Poet Taras Zaitsev, various poems over various years
Translation by Quinxy von Besiex, 2009