Читать книгу Albrecht Dürer and me - David Zieroth - Страница 11

travelling without earplugs

spotted cows on pasture slopes

moo where upper alpine snow

leaks into June-fed creeks constrained

in narrow rock walls, each unmoved

by burgeoning white

when evening arrives, all noises

cease here in my pension

except for one: someone’s

far-off singing, perceptible

only when other sounds

subside, its pitch insisting

my tired mind identify

and end its e-e-e at once

and failing to do so

I resort to pillow-wrapping

my head, to await any dream

wherein I escape that timbre

not unlike the one (I begin to think)

we hear just before dying: such

thoughts entangle the traveller

unwisely travelling earplug-less

and who is vexed to discover

next morning the mosquito buzz

arises from the radio at his bedside

an opera-broadcasting station

not turned completely off

as if the previous person here

had been malignly planning ahead

to effect another’s discomfort

and thus he suffers because he assumes

he can never correct creation

believing glumly the arrow

of the irreparable always aims for him

yet in the cool of the next dawn

he’s enchanted to encounter birds

new to him singing in Italian