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                                            /To Olga Barre,

                                           On her very Day,

                                           Also to that thought of hers for

                                           The 100th Birthday of Don Juan Mattus./

      What the bird could hear

      Time, when the space go asleep,

      No one to prevail they knew.

      No soul done to dream insincere.

      No sky can escape that of thought

      To be near

      To the eye of grace new.

      The sigh is the heart’s atmosphere.

      For whate’er the mountains stayed

      As the myths with those few,

      The sea-birth hymns the light over there:

      Joy ancient and Earth for you.

      If Poetry was Music, – what, mostly, is, —

      I’d rather be a voice, that of the melos

      Plays beyond the Tacts, that of the lyriс

      Freer than forebound words of textured song,

      Like a strange wonderer, ne’er care if right or wrong

      Half-slept Composer planned it be, for world

      Could learn its inner history; and that of stress,

      Of hidden breath, of rarest thought in notes unread —

      «Twould be a witness of the sacred dialect

      For new-found sounds be your own mistery.

      A song, sings newborn song, a dreaming dream —

      Much I would love it can be; – honestly,

      I’d dare to mix then a sort of nostalgie

      For things unheardable with archi-tenor fancy,

      What could be like no energy th’Sky needs to hymn

      A Scene of very Soul of the pure Listening.

      This glancing Myth! And you in it, you genious

      Are the creator of the future bliss, at once:

      That inspiration yours brings that what I’ve brought not:

      The orphies70 from within you join my pauses,

      And it is like the Chance compose that I ne’er heard, —

      No falsed, no spoilt, – and this is might be somewhat…

      What could be told thus of the sacrifice in notes?71

                                           /To the KSMA friends,

                                            With gratitude to J.K.

            For the initiating as such a great idea of the Day./

      Three years later, five years since th’Apocalypse72,

      Which never happened, that of what old doubts

      Be, still: if really happened so ’twill be not, —

      The Beauty, dove-tailed thought73, will diseclipse,

      As ever, people’s minds from dead uncertainty

      In bounds of its genial transgnostic Art.

      New coming Dawn will phrase on that. Redeemed world!

      The Biggest Doubter of goodly mankind died

      On freest Sunday74, and wasn’t it for Poet’s word,

      Who came up’n new time to shake Great Negus75 hand,

      Soothing no sword, if not in name of th’Unforeseen

      All-Love? Unreasonable, called by Air so, Love,

      That goes through the bounds of a Life-denial…

      Mind, no ugly Trial on this day will be. —

      How Mystery of Fate and Time takes Dream Exiled

      Back to Light? not samely, as the Beauty ends old history?76

      A Shade – there’s the dark echoing: —

      «Of a noblest kind!» – slides in,

      All silent, pre-materialized.

      There can be seen no eyes

      Of maid surprised, no scene

      Of fatal cries. A monster

      Felt from high-poetic stars,

      He swam across the sea of Death,

      And, after seven lives of storm,

      His ugly look how eloquent!

      Much peaceful though. The light-rays

      Seem are not to aggravate the lines

      On his still brow, so ’tis like now

      As he tries his light-way back.

      Envoked to face the old dream’s wrack.

      Within the Rumours House, frank,

      He steps, in corridors СКАЧАТЬ