In a song on a shoe-string, a
bird on a wire, Solovushka sings;
night is his country, darkness his
solo, lost his plumage, he is all
voice and trill of woven words
caught in crescendo:
On the edge of the earth
sifted in sand slapped by snow
shaped in rain lured by light
branch shaken leaf trembling,
stands a paper birch--
mist-flavored sweet water
untapped and rising
from tangled rock-cracking roots
your pails and buckets and cups,
fill them up for the price of
the one thing the wordless wind
cannot grant: the craving of
a silver birch,
for the gurgling of
The mountains held up the sky like pillars, releasing plumes of pebbles, streams and silt as far as my girlish eyes could follow, and w...
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Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
There is a song clinging like a drowsy bat to the dingy ceiling of a dungeon, deep within the labyrinthine palace of my memories, a melody...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...