And worn, weathered maps of America.
And he did not love children crying,
Or tea served with raspberries,
Or woman’s hysteria.
…And I was his wife.
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The pillow hot
The second candleDying, the ravensCrying. Haven’tSlept all night, too lateTo dream of sleep…How unbearably whiteThe blind on the white window.Good morning, morning!
But listen, I am warning you
Not as a swallow, nor a maple,Not as a reed, nor as a star,Not as spring water,Nor as the toll of bells…Will I return to trouble menNor will I vex their dreams againWith my insatiable moans.
I am a bard – I am a heaven bird,
I love a flower and so charming lassIn aromatic springs that never pass.I love a whisper, very gentle and long,And, in full silence, a despondent song.
For Osip Mandelstam
Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass.Over crystal, on slippery tracks of ice,the painted sleighs and I, together, pass.And over St Peter’s there are poplars, crowsthere’s a pale green dome there that glows,dim in the sun-shrouded dust.The field of heroes lingers in my thought,Kulikovo’s barbarian battleground.The frozen poplars, like glasses for a toast,clash now, more noisily,…
Along the hard crust of deep snows,
So gentle and quiet – we bothAre walking, in silence half-lost.And sweeter than all songs, sung ever,Are this dream, becoming the truth,Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor,The light ring of your silver spurs…
Glory to you, inescapable pain!
The autumn evening was sultry and red,My husband returned and quietly said:‘You know, they brought him back from the hunt,They found his corpse by the old oak tree.I pity the queen. He was so young! ..In just one night her hair turned white.’He found his pipe on the mantelpieceAnd went out to his nighttime shift.I’ll…