Goroshek, how I miss
Our little games. No one
Was to blame. Our Lady
Covered us with her veil.
When I asked the ash tree,
Where was my beloved,
You came bearing oranges
And rusty henna roses.
You sipped a bitter cup to its dregs,
Bottomless Baikal eyes brewing
That book of anecdotes you're busy
Concocting to amuse the angels.
Through the mists, a glimpse,
But the noble white oak
Has gone. Forgive me, accept
These salt tears, and a prayer.
Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...
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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, ...