Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

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      Look. The wild geese of Tagore

      continue their flight.

      His life – thousands of lights,

      abode of peace and beauty —

      flashed in a single torch,

      illuminating

      not only Indian horizon,

      and became a sunrise

      of a new-born era.

      Such closeness

      we feel to him

      due to the fantastic song,

      sung perhaps

      from the beginning

      of man’s days.

      This song tells us

      about love and pride,

      about victory of grit

      upon distort.

      It’s like a banner

      of a relay-race,

      carried by wise prophets.

      Not every one of them

      could save from vices,

      but he could —

      the mighty patriarch,

      one of the most lyrical

      of lyric poets,

      himself a living example

      for those who crave

      for inexpensive praise.

      The rivers of Bengal

      are deep and shining.

      His poems

      are natural as them —

      purification of primeval games.

      Not to the Lotusland

      his wild geese fly —

      from people’s hearts

      to people’s hearts.

      Kolkata airport. A room

      for Very Important Persons.

      The flight is delayed.

      A young diplomat’s boss

      turns to a lousy style—

      swears, smears, curses.

      Enters the Dalai Lama —

      greatness plus simplicity.

      The boss quiets, disappears,

      with him – vanity, felicities.

      The young diplomat

      tells the Dalai Lama

      that as a student

      he’d traveled in India

      for half a year,

      then saw a vision:

      the Sixth Guru of the Sikhs

      and the young man

      were walking on the sea

      like on the land.

      The Guru, gazing, prophesied:

      “You would be asleep

      for half of your life,

      busy like a puppet.

      You would be

      awake in the other country,

      a poet like a nugget.”

      The Dalai Lama thinks,

      consults a book, explains:

      “Yes, it’s true,”

      awards him life chains.

      Daily on vacation, we remove

      clothes at a leisurely rate.

      It’s slow to unfurl

      a sari… you Indian, wait.

      An improvised visit to Japan.

      A tea and a kimono surprise.

      Madam Butterfly undresses,

      narrowing her large eyes.

      Women in the Emirates wear

      sacks with slits to see us.

      They also inspire passion —

      no time to finish her namaz.

      Blessed is Gauguin, who gave

      the idea – a Tahiti savage

      in the only loincloth. I feast

      my eyes, preparing to ravage.

      “Long Road Ahead!” “Eh, Once!”

      “Ai Da Nu – Da Dai!”

      in the soul, they live and whisper:

      “Poet-spinner, you catch.”

      “Coachman, Hold Your Horses,”

      “Tiny brook” are written. Trouble!

      I fall in a thoughtful mood —

      what will the bait spin?

      Gypsy songs, chavela,

      still own their fisheries —

      heady, free humor,

      eh, its width and breadth.

      Dance lovely, sing —

      “deceptive speech” is served.

      It is worth nothing

      to the rich man of cordial words.

      1. Till daybreak

      Beware of a Gipsy gaze,

      don’t trust – or I’ll bewitch,

      plunge a dagger of love

      in your heart, give a twitch.

      Chorus:

      A tari-tari-tari,

      a tari-ta,

      tari-tari-tari,

      tari-ta.

      Dare for an infernal night,

      I, witch in a flash,

      will shower kisses on you,

      make you tight, refresh.

      Chorus

      You want to be in pain,

      I’ll torture, conceal in my hair.

      Bestow your ring, and ah! —

      till dawn is Gipsy care.

      Chorus

      If needles of passion itch,

      torment СКАЧАТЬ