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
Рецензии
На это произведение написаны 4 рецензии, здесь отображается последняя, остальные - в полном списке.