Читать книгу The Parthenon - George Hobson - Страница 7

Under light, O bowl, paint for me,

By dahlias and peaches interposed,

The coral edges of a tropical sea.

Reflect your maker’s Maker’s merriment

At costumes lent by fruits and blooms

To your curvaceous finery.

Your colors whoop like schoolgirls out of class;

Like twinned lips of lovers pulled close

By beauty’s sweet force,

They quiver.

I nudge the glass,

The water stirs.

The sea on beaches at the world’s end sloshes,

The lovers sway among the blossoms.

Ocean sighs.

Late sun dyes the bowl vermilion.

I jar the glass again.

Creatures spring to life, myriad.

“Father, the circus is in town—

Can we go?”

We skip all the way.

Why, this is creation!

The world’s being born!

Elephants stomp through purple dahlias,

Tigers pad on beds of peaches,

Jesters quilt the glass with motley—

Shalom!

Your rim, O bowl, marks out the planet’s edge;

Your oceans breed whales;

Your womb is great with clouds and plants and beasts;

In your depths nebulae gleam.

O bowl, sun-bearer, in you

Light figures the invisible.

Your harmonics paint

Heavenly frescoes;

In your radiance

Alpha echoes Omega.

Shalom