Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

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      We rambled in Katmandu,

      temples and temples along.

      No novelty after India.

      Visualizing ourselves

      as pundits – whether

      Sanskrit, Pali12,

      Buddhism, Hinduism —

      we were on top of them,

      talking to “inanimate” objects.

      Merely later, we became

      ashamed, this was when.

      The main Stupa13.

      The all-seeing eyes —

      animated, though painted —

      of the all-powerful Buddha

      were looking to the four

      sides of the horizon.

      Hugging one another,

      we led the conversation,

      “You know us, the Great,

      make us the absolute best

      of the lovers

      who lived on the Earth.”

      The response, “Firstly, restrain

      the arrogance,” struck us

      as a harsh electric charge.

      He remained confident.

      We started shaking

      on bent knees before him,

      then stomped away,

      of course, we forgot why

      we had come there —

      to spin mantras14 and make

      our wishes come true.

      For the whole day and night

      we refused to utter a word.

      We’d seen dozens

      of Buddhist places —

      Bodh Gaya15, Sarnath16,

      so many others…

      Became hundredfold

      kind-hearted.

      Not one love but two

      build an ardent affection.

      Taj Mahal,

      the seventh wonder of the world,

      is in Agra,

      where studies my lover,

      the eighth wonder of the world.

      Separately, they dazzle shining.

      Together, a celestial allure,

      they picture a star

      framed by the Moon.

      How cannot you start

      believing in wonders now.

      In my student cell —

      a bed and nothing else —

      I drop off to sleep

      in anticipation of meeting

      the distant you.

      Without such a date,

      it is to be a monk

      without a prayer.

      I fall asleep.

      But…

      a balloon of apparitions

      inflates twenty minutes,

      and here’s a rainy season —

      how will it fly off?

      That’s the balloon’s business.

      Now! I drink from the spring

      of a rendezvous – the sitar17

      of your lips – like yesterday,

      like the night before.

      The sitar recognized the musician,

      began to play a monsoon

      melody about high love.

      The tune took us

      on the lightest sari away

      to the Southern point of India,

      where we’ve been recent.

      The same blue waters

      of the ocean, our dolphin

      frisks around

      when it has seen us.

      The lunar path, by moving

      waters apart, drove

      a tunnel along the bottom

      where we go to our

      angel – the dolphin.

      It grants you a giant pearl.

      We return to the coast,

      and on the melody of lips

      fly to our places —

      you to the West,

      me to the East.

      Afterward, you’ll send me a letter:

      you’ve found an enormous pearl.

      Twilight is satiated

      with the stillness of the fall.

      The crimson of leaves

      frolics on the pond.

      Energy and a breeze,

      spring and trees,

      you and me

      need each other.

      A catchy tune

      sticks around.

      Not now. Not really.

      I’m СКАЧАТЬ