Before. There is always before.
There is after. This, we become.
But the mind can play tricks.
It creates a blank space here.
Memory may say: this, then this.
But where do the lost selves go?
Are they caught between centuries?
Does their vision mirror our dreams?
As a child, I would pretend blindness,
To teach my fingers how to see.
As long as water remained, and earth,
I held hope as a seed in my hand.
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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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...
Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...