Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 38

BEADS

My grandmother’s lapis ring,

my great grandfather’s books—these

I can give up, I think.

But somehow these glass beads

are more than I can bear to lose.

They are bright-colored, simple

like a garden of peacocks, and

their heart is made of stars and fish scales.

Or a lake, and fish in the lake:

first a black one dives up, then scarlet,

then the tiniest fish, a flash of green—

he will never come back now,

indeed, why should he?

I love not the poor, nor the rich,

not this country, nor any other,

not the time of day, nor time of year—

but I do love what is all-seeming:

it is a mysterious form of joy.

It has no price—and no sense.