Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 16

6.

There is a mean and spiteful man,

an unkind man, a sufferer.

Oddly, I feel sorry for him,

but I am even more unkind.

And once when we were talking,

too long ago to remember when,

it was nighttime, with endless rain,

as if it had fallen deep into thought,

as if someone had stepped down

to walk all in tears, as if made of tears:

not about self, not about sky,

not about winding stairs,

not about all that is past,

not about all that will be—

nothing will be.

Nothing can be.