Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

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      The destiny of Rajasthan18 is a desert.

      A few marble cities

      are the mirages of diverse colors:

      blue openwork of Jodhpur,

      dark-pink Jaipur,

      and now at last inimitable

      white-foamy Udaipur.

      The hiding sun covered

      the lake with a blue-red-

      white silk sari.

      The reflections of the palaces in the lake

      added a white ornament.

      This rectangular sari

      resembles a flag – the symbol

      of peace-love-purity.

      United, these colors waver

      prophetically on the pinnacle of our love.

      On the bus,

      nobody disturbs us.

      Our love transcends the mass

      of the giant wooded mountains,

      stays higher than the sky —

      now

      vanishing from sight,

      now

      materializing again —

      outside the range of action

      of spiteful tongues and eyes.

      The sunlight

      prolongs the life

      of its battery

      by drawing out of our love,

      out of the brilliance of waterfalls

      dashing diamonds on the green.

      The amenities of the world

      spring from the place in Kashmir,

      and we

      connect our love

      to the source.

      Cedars —

      the arms of my darling —

      take fold of me,

      the eyes-waterfalls

      flow a distinct vision:

      we, naked,

      ride white horses

      in the middle

      of the blooming Kashmiri valley —

      the happiness of earthly lovers.

      The vision would come to life

      the next day

      though

      we would be dressed.

      We live the lives

      of each other,

      we think of only

      each other,

      each other is the one word

      meaning we, our love.

      Sunlight, draw more glow

      from our endless source.

      We – a pair of lovers —

      don’t want to know anything

      about the war over Kashmir.

      We might as well fly —

      what we do,

      racing between the mountains.

      At this part of the planet,

      the night sent her stars out,

      turned Kashmir

      out of a painting

      into a pencil drawing.

      Two giantess mountains

      wrinkled their faces

      in displeasure:

      in a hefty cloud-hammock

      they swung the Moon —

      a fidgety little old woman

      who always poked her nose

      into the affairs

      of the rocky kingdom below.

      A breeze

      with jasmine fragrance

      drove illusive shadows

      together,

      and the silence

      who fell into the night’s arms

      began to jingle.

      Envious of the silence,

      my lover

      asked me to hug her stronger.

      The tranquil

      not bustling night

      filled mountains with coolness —

      you could drink it like nectar.

      In the gaze of the loving eyes

      and everywhere,

      reigned the infinity —

      a serious personage —

      who suggested

      unraveling a problem

      of the meaning of life.

      Next time.

      For the moment,

      we were tired of deciphering

      a formula

      offered by the fairy

      of happiness-to-be-together.

      It took a countless quantity

      of kisses

      to do that.

      Variability. All the time.

      After deciphering,

      we were startled

      at the appearance

      of the flower girls

      carrying baskets on their heads.

      Chattering, not serious,

      despite

      the infinity and tiredness,

      the girls

      gave us garlands

      and,

      as a parting compliment,

      blew a calm melody

      out of sacred shells

      that didn’t disturb

      the repose around.

      A silvery river continued

      her untroubled sleep,

      a sleeping forest got quiet

      after СКАЧАТЬ