Your voice was water in the dunes, my chest
was resonating in the wooden booth.
There, south of my feet was spring and youth,
north of my brow ferns sprouted plumed crests.
A tree of light in space, a narrow mast
sang out, with no dawn, no seed to use,
and my lament that learned to calm and soothe,
hung coronets of hope above the nests.
Sweet, distant voice that I so longed to hear.
I tasted sweet and distant voice, a glow
that could so quickly come and disappear.
Voice distant, pine forest, wounded deer,
sweet voice, a quiet fall of sobbing snow,
caught in the marrow, far away and near.
The Poet Speaks With His Beloved on the Telephone F. G. Lorca -
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103013100048
Свидетельство о публикации №103013100048
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It's a pity you've got so few readers here.You've got a wonderful gift.It's like magic for me.
Валео Лученко 02.02.2003 10:08 • Заявить о нарушении
Валео Лученко 02.02.2003 10:08 • Заявить о нарушении
Many thanks for your kind message. I do not expect to be very popular with my English poems or even with my Russian poems. I am happy, however, that among my readers are several outstanding poets, and I value their continued interest. It is more than enough for me. I would be already satisfied if I only had one reader – you.
Борис Старосельский 03.02.2003 12:21 Заявить о нарушении
Борис Старосельский 03.02.2003 12:21 Заявить о нарушении
На это произведение написаны 2 рецензии, здесь отображается последняя, остальные - в полном списке.