Читать книгу The Drowning Child - Alex Barclay - Страница 6

To a Dying Girl

How quickly must she go?

She calls dark swans from mirrors everywhere:

From halls and porticos, from pools of air.

How quickly must she know?

They wander through the fathoms of her eye,

Waning southerly until their cry

Is gone where she must go.

How quickly does the cloudfire streak the sky,

Tremble on the peaks, then cool and die?

She moves like evening into night,

Forgetful as the swans forget their flight

Or spring the fragile snow,

So quickly she must go.

Clinton F. Larson