Among the trees, while I am quite alone,
I seek my trail, but it is overgrown
With moss, with grass, with juniper, with ramble,
On tussocks in the fen in vain I shamble.
Something in me begins to weep and wail,
But suddenly I see another trail.
No trail on earth is single, they are a lot;
One previous trail from other differs not.
The stalking talon and the falling star,
The pattern of eternity they are.
And non-existent flourishes, it can spread.
Reality it is what we call dead.
And if I vanish in this leafy dale,
Nothing will then exist except my trail.
24.08.1996.
The trail
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112110408724
Свидетельство о публикации №112110408724
Рецензии
May I compare it with the Borges' garden...
Николай Старорусский 06.11.2012 21:58 • Заявить о нарушении
Николай Старорусский 06.11.2012 21:58 • Заявить о нарушении
You may, but for me it is not a garden, but russian forest, where I have lost my trail in early childhood, an image of my life.
Владимир Микушевич 06.11.2012 22:42 Заявить о нарушении
Владимир Микушевич 06.11.2012 22:42 Заявить о нарушении