Читать книгу Time and love. The novel in verse - George Pospelow - Страница 8

A swing is flying and flying,

weaving November and April

in whether a minute or a year.

The two are working for a flight,

flittering aimlessly at random,

merry at the height.

Below is a roundabout,

the banks – now here, now there,

people – now thin, now stout.

In the air-bed – up and down —

the attractive eyes are creating

love – up and down.

The palms are in force.

The wedded legs enjoy

being not privy to the Earth.

Floating on one of the world

parallels, the two have said

everything without words.