Читать книгу Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved - Gregory Orr - Страница 18

I’ve known grief. I don’t

Take it lightly. Know how

It gnaws your bones hollow

So you’re afraid to stand up,

Afraid the lightest wind will

Knock you over, blow you away.

But maybe the wind is supposed

To blow right through you;

Maybe you’re a tree in winter

And your poem translates

That cold wind into song.