Читать книгу Time and love. The novel in verse - George Pospelow - Страница 26

On the bus,

nobody disturbs us.

Our love transcends the mass

of the giant wooded mountains,

stays higher than the sky —

now

vanishing from sight,

now

materializing again —

outside the range of action

of spiteful tongues and eyes.

The sunlight

prolongs the life

of its battery

by drawing out of our love,

out of the brilliance of waterfalls

dashing diamonds on the green.

The amenities of the world

spring from the place in Kashmir,

and we

connect our love

to the source.

Cedars —

the arms of my darling —

take fold of me,

the eyes-waterfalls

flow a distinct vision:

we, naked,

ride white horses

in the middle

of the blooming Kashmiri valley —

the happiness of earthly lovers.

The vision would come to life

the next day

though

we would be dressed.

We live the lives

of each other,

we think of only

each other,

each other is the one word

meaning we, our love.

Sunlight, draw more glow

from our endless source.

We – a pair of lovers —

don’t want to know anything

about the war over Kashmir.

We might as well fly —

what we do,

racing between the mountains.