by Vasyl Holoborodko, 1988
You told me to guess your name,
but I couldn't.
First I called you "water,"
"To pursue you,
a drop of water in a river, is to never return."
You said you were not water.
Then I called you:
"Grass." You laughed, but I explained.
"You are the last blade of grass in a clearing
lighting my path green,
so I always know where to find you."
"Tell me the truth, I should call you 'bird',
since when we kiss, your hands take flight."
I will never guess your name,
I will never guess anything about you
because all I know is water