Beyond the solid plaster wall
and cataract of drape
I sense a change, a paragon
of cities taking shape;
envisage stone inscribing space,
a plain where contours
bleach in haze; hills
that chime like bells
and then evaporate,
as here in the white room
our torsos
freeze in stylised embrace,
my fingers
petrified upon your face.
White City
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103032100493
Свидетельство о публикации №103032100493
Рецензии
For a finely-rendered Russian translation of this poem by Gennadi K., see the following link on this site:
http://www.stihi.ru/2003/03/21-370
Jena Woodhouse 21.03.2003 11:07 • Заявить о нарушении
http://www.stihi.ru/2003/03/21-370
Jena Woodhouse 21.03.2003 11:07 • Заявить о нарушении