Yuliia Vereta


When my bare feet
Step on the marble floor
Of any given temple
In any given country
To the south from China,
My husband says
“You don’t know
All the people who were
Here before you.
I will wait outside.”
I am holding the sandals
Swaying in my hand.
People pray there.
Sometimes they whisper.
But most often
They don’t even open lips.
I have never been
Of the church-type,
But temples do make me totally speechless,
Then turn me into the storyteller,
And finally—make me come back
To see the dawn breaking and getting scattered
On the white tiles lined with black.
“Wanna get some breakfast?”—he asks
Smiling, while I am fastening the sandal clasp.