Читать книгу Time and love. The novel in verse - George Pospelow - Страница 28

Phidias19 who turned marble

into a human,

compelled it to breathe,

as every creator

had the best work

unfulfilled —

a graceful figure

of a girl like you,

twenty-year,

so spiritual.

Stop.

That’s only

the first reaction

towards the effect

of glorious proportions,

color and fragrance of your body.

I’ve got hundreds of proofs

to show you aren’t a semblance

of a statue, and deserve many

more daring comparisons

for your immortalization.

Lay. Don’t move. Be a model.

In Kashmir, I’ll originate easily

with description words:

natural colors, inimitable

in their beauty are all around.

The eyes are the springs

feeding the lake

on which we live

in a small cabin afloat.

I dive into.

They burn me with the cold

as then at the Caucasus

after jumping into the river.

In appearance, they are warm.

Right away, the long eyelashes

look prickly, a glance

from under the raised brows

seems too determined.

The rosy cheeks that

absorbed the aroma of jasmine,

you picked on the shore,

indicate that you are not

a mere Phidias marble,

you are full of life.

The long, luxuriant hair —

lush cedar branches

against the background

of the Full Moon —

slightly closed

your lovely forehead

and marvelous roundish chin —

the kind of things a sculptor

can’t do justice to the original.

The half-open tempting mouth

is a pomegranate broken in two,

lying close by on the table.

The proud posture of the head

tells of an outstanding character,

uniting the harmony of spirit

and physical charm.

Herein helps the neck

that allows

the moonlight to soak.

It drew your beauty,

in return gave a characteristic

haze, resembling

the precise colors of the moonstone

that you bought today.

The shoulders are the streams

of the waterfall

seen yesterday in the mountains,

girlish rounded shoulders.

The inconceivably kind arms —

I want to kiss their

every plump inch —

they refuse to lie calmly,

gesticulate in rhythm

to the flow of words

about your impressions.

Don’t move,

or I’ll transform you

into Venus de Milo20.

However,

your arms in ringing bracelets

and many-colored bands,

your fingers in shiny rings

depict Kashmiri dancers.

They’ll stay as they are.

The bust of “Miss Universe”

can’t rival your breasts —

ripe mango fruits —

elastic, pliant, quiver.

The face isn’t in competition,

while the figures are alike.

Here you both are rivals.

If you take part in a contest,

the Jury of the Universe

would select you, no doubt,

a charming terrestrial beauty,

a feast of youth, the aroma of

eternity, the infinity of love.

Your waist is a bridge over Jhelúm21.

All peoples have their different Hell,

but their Eden is a variation of Kashmir:

a valley in the Alps, the Caucasus,

the Appalachians from hip to hip.

Precisely in the middle of Elysium,

over your black triangle

I lay a walnut figurine

of the same dimensions:

a black horse at full tilt

touches hind legs

with forelegs, and looks

as a triangle.

Today we rushed our horses

along the Kashmiri valley

just in the same way.

Yet, the black horse

will gallop at full speed

at the cherished hour,

and carry us, until bridled,

through the main entrance

to the center of paradise.

It is familiar with the route.

The extension of the valley —

the legs

are of the ancient Indian size,

neither to diminish nor to add,

and perfect curves.

Not glossy snow-white

captivating virgin body

is one of the Himalayan peaks.

Yesterday we saw it

in the full moonlight.

Just a general contour

without going into details —

your body will exist as such

because you dress,

take me away from the sin.