Читать книгу Cane - Jean Toomer - Страница 8

Hair—

silver-gray,

like streams of stars,

Brows—

recurved canoes

quivered by the ripples blown by pain,

Her eyes

mist of tears

condensing on the flesh below

And her channeled muscles

are cluster grapes of sorrow

purple in the evening sun

nearly ripe for worms.