Читать книгу Time and love. The novel in verse - George Pospelow - Страница 61

Fancy dream birds

were spinning in my head.

I sat without light in the dark.

To perpetuate? Why not?

They write poems about serious,

but trifles are also proper.

Let them live. Enough

of my kindness on them.

On everything that moves, flies

over the years, I moved and flew.

I left blank these gaps:

by summer, Tisa34 on a raft,

on a yak through winter Tibet,

with the beloved in a gondola,

the most insulting.

Avid traveler, I’d like to settle,

to place my Flora-fantasy

by the sea in a new garden.

Lots of Jasmines, Honeydew.

Bougainvillea is everywhere.

Caressing the eye aviaries.

Streams shine here and there.

not lilacs without fragrance —

from the North of Russia.

Agave, cacti, I would order

from the heat of Arizona.

Narrow paths are where

you are waiting for them.

Somewhat asymmetric

giving flora a spree:

sprouts of thin bamboo,

coconut palms, plus

a pond with a lotus in the middle —

ex Oriente Lux35.

Please forgive the lightness

of unfulfilled dreams,

as real fulfilled ones,

though torn from the darkness.