Fly - life; we, flies, are captured in the bower
With boundaries that catch the drowsy light
With us; our trap is scarlet, but with white
Speckles - windows, where the raining rays, are slower,
As if we were in ancient Russian tower
With dying dyes; impossible is the flight
For us in freedom, yes, but in despite
Of this immovable, sticky, poisonous shower
We move, we dance, because we eat our cage,
The shameful shamans, that dare not there sit,
For unexistents ghosts possess our wit,
And we in vain seek God in our rage,
While each of us, the atom, is to split:
Fly-agaric is our autumnal age.
1995
Это не перевод с русского, но перекличка с одним из сонетов к Татьяне ("Двенадцать лет извилистая вена", см. на странице): На языке шаманов ум хором.
Ум хором - мухомор.
(Комментарий Татьяны)
The death - cap
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111041209855
Свидетельство о публикации №111041209855
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