Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 44

4

If you are born on a doomed Monday,

don’t even think of happiness:

you’re lucky to escape at all

under your star of loss.

I was born on a doomed Monday

between Christmas and Epiphany,

when the old freezing cold bore down,

like a bear on linden stilts:

“Who’s been cooking up my meat,

who’s been winding my shaggy coat?”

The tiny stars were blinking,

unknown and unknowable all.

And I dreamed that I was loved,

that nothing was ever denied me,

that a golden comb smoothed my braids,

a silver sled bore me along,

and words from a secret book were read to me,

words that I soon forgot.