Читать книгу Дикий ирис. Аверн. Ночь, всеохватная ночь - Луиза Глик - Страница 37

Because in our world

something is always hidden,

small and white,

small and what you call

pure, we do not grieve

as you grieve, dear

suffering master; you

are no more lost

than we are, under

the hawthorn tree, the hawthorn holding

balanced trays of pearls: what

has brought you among us

who would teach you, though

you kneel and weep,

clasping your great hands,

in all your greatness knowing

nothing of the soul’s nature,

which is never to die: poor sad god,

either you never have one

or you never lose one.