The night is still ahead of us. Insane,
I start to weep. You laugh. I am exposed.
All my complaints fly, ignored, loathed,
a few small doves, few moments in a chain.
The night is gone. We both - crystal pain!
You wept for distant things, the things you’ve lost.
Have I discovered what I feared most,
a fragile heart of sand, a soul profane?
The dawn has caught us, desperate, in bed,
the mouths bitten hard, the flow of blood
spilled in the sky and tirelessly spread.
The sun broke through the blinds sharply cut.
It searched for us in vain and instead
set on my broken heart, impressed in mud.
The Night of Sleepless Love F. G. Loraca - translation
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103020600115
Свидетельство о публикации №103020600115
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