Читать книгу Time and love. The novel in verse - George Pospelow - Страница 55

Roots of a broad and sturdy

banyan overhang in the air.

A mango grove refills

with coolness inside.

Familiar geese wing

wedge wise by force of habit,

of course, call sadly

to the world’s very end.

The wind whispered grandly:

“Don’t aspire to fly.”

And again, hot, humid,

heat, tranquil heat…

Having broken the stillness,

an eagle feasts on a prey.

Buzzards bide their time —

a ceremony strictly observed.

A newly married couple —

no jokes, serious and languid —

is carried in a palanquin

to the husband’s village.

The future house hides

amidst the bamboo thicket,

beetling over the river —

will dive if slightly pushed.

A weaver potter’s row

takes its ordinary course.

A smith is dripping with sweat.

A Brahmin walks to the temple.

At a paddy-field —

rice is everything here —

a peasant woman covers

her breast with a transparent sari.

Two herds of buffaloes

are wading across the river —

a joyous moment for all:

coolness, and ahead again.

Waist-deep in the water,

shapely Bengalis launder,

discuss, local mermaids,

how, and where, and what.

Gaiety and jokes… Always

simplicity, shining eyes.

Ashore is a rocking-horse.

An ordinary beauty. Non-exotic.