Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 36
ОглавлениеANOTHER LULLABY
Sleep, my little dove, no one shall leave you,
leave you to be looked at by others,
as the woman gone out to harvest
left her son at the edge of the field.
She reaps the barley and wipes away tears.
“Mama, mama, who walks toward me,
who stands towering above me?”
Three old women with powers of magic,
or—three old she-wolves, all gone gray.
They rock your cradle, they coo you to sleep,
they chew the poppy seeds into softness.
But the child has no need of poppy seeds.
The child cries, but no one hears.
