Читать книгу Дикий ирис. Аверн. Ночь, всеохватная ночь - Луиза Глик - Страница 67

More than you love me, very possibly

you love the beasts of the field, even,

possibly, the field itself, in August dotted

with wild chicory and aster:

I know. I have compared myself

to those flowers, their range of feeling

so much smaller and without issue; also to white sheep,

actually gray: I am uniquely

suited to praise you. Then why

torment me? I study the hawkweed,

the buttercup protected from the grazing herd

by being poisonous: is pain

your gift to make me

conscious in my need of you, as though

I must need you to worship you,

or have you abandoned me

in favor of the field, the stoic lambs turning

silver in twilight; waves of wild aster and chicory shining

pale blue and deep blue, since you already know

how like your raiment it is.