The odeon drinks in rich scents of figtrees and tart mulberries,
breathless, void of spectacle, save stone withstanding centuries.
Astride a white horse afternoon arrives, parching in dust and flies;
in somnolent hotels, siesta tosses behind sunstruck blinds.
The pale steed dappled by the leaves flicks gadflies, shifts from left
to right, and rolls a restive centaur eye as Pelion plays on his mind.
The Greek and Roman orators have fallen silent and retired,
leaving the semicircle to contemplative wayfarers' eyes,
where sandalled strangers gaze upon the interplay of stone and time,
as evening conquers grove and vine and edges azure day aside.
Odeon
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
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Рецензии
For a high-fidelity Russian version of this poem by Vlanes, see: http://www.stihi.ru/2003/02/01-276
Jena Woodhouse 02.05.2003 08:17 • Заявить о нарушении
Jena Woodhouse 02.05.2003 08:17 • Заявить о нарушении