Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

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      To learn what your anger

      is capable of – to approach

      you from behind and kiss

      the neck by the left ear.

      You shudder, throw me

      by your back on the grass.

      The playfully angry

      goddess starts beating me

      with her quick kisses.

      Your punishment is pitiless —

      you leave your kisses

      unreciprocated.

      I endure,

      and burn with felicity.

      The enigmatic scent of long

      hair, tender skin,

      the glitter of affectionate eyes

      fuddle subtly my mind.

      Your lips slightly touch

      my cheek, your hair falls

      loose over our heads.

      We are lost for the entire

      world inside a marquee.

      Well, I’m in the range

      of your charms,

      seductive nymph Calypso.

      You are saying you want

      to conquer the hero, and

      put forward your captivating

      weapon – an alluring tempting

      kiss. Oh, yes, you win!

      By holding me captive, you’re

      convinced in the might

      of the charms. It makes you

      calm. You lie down

      on the grass, already dried-up

      from the early dew. You like

      how I kiss your round

      shoulders. I feel this, and kiss

      even more passionately,

      while getting over from

      one end of a snow-white valley

      to another. It’s unbearable

      to stay below if

      two knolls rise before.

      The height beckons to approach:

      slowly I climb the knoll,

      go across the ravine,

      and ascend a second knoll,

      where I take rest

      after getting tired

      with a long passage.

      Yesterday,

      on the way to Ooty,

      we had a good look

      of Picasso reproductions,

      so that today you seem

      assembled of geometrical

      figures, mainly of smooth

      unusual fine circles.

      I kiss the crocks of a broken

      round jug,

      each one separately,

      try to collect them together

      and create a single ring.

      Crocks can’t stick together —

      they remain themselves.

      Perhaps, we should not

      grasp Picasso suspiciously.

      Wow, isn’t that something!

      The Indian subject area

      overlaps the European.

      During our travels in India,

      we often saw pictures of

      Krishna5 kissing a shepherdess.

      So, we transform into

      Krishna and Radha imitating

      their pose that stuck in

      our collective memory,

      not even neglecting the flute.

      Success. Subconsciously,

      we sense the bonds that tie

      true lovers together.

      Radha rewards me with

      the most gratifying kiss.

      Our tongues play smoothly.

      Still under the impression

      of a terrific transformation,

      we aspire to revive legends

      of two other greatest

      Indian fancy girls.

      “Please show how

      Shakuntala and Savitri6

      would kiss their lovers.”

      We rejoice especially

      at the happiness of Savitri when

      she took her lover back

      from the God of Death.

      Recreation of love episodes

      lasts longer time.

      OK, it’s getting dark.