Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 45

5

From the deepest well,

or the furthest star

my grandmother looks out from each thing:

Nothing, she says, nothing can we know.

We cannot say what we have seen.

We walk along, like two beggars.

Give us nothing, yet we are grateful.

Of the others, we know nothing.