Читать книгу Apples from Shinar - Hyam Plutzik - Страница 20

THE GEESE

A miscellaneous screaming that comes from nowhere

Raises the eyes at last to the moonward-flying

Squadron of wild-geese arcing the spatial cold.

Beyond the hunter’s gun or the will’s range

They press southward, toward the secret marshes

Where the appointed gunmen mark the crossing

Of flight and moment. There is no force stronger

(In the sweep of the monomaniac passion, time)

Than the will toward destiny, which is death.

Value the intermediate splendor of birds.