Air, trees and mushrooms and the stalking rill
Have their specific scents, we say, they smell,
But so they smile, and so sincere they tell
The mystery of their being: shrill
As the yell of the jay, or soft; the skill
To show and to conceal the deepest well
Of their tears; the paradise and hell
Together in the forest, who is ill,
And must reveal his pain with sudden scream
Of the spasmodic fragrance in the wet
Palpable, but pale and almost invisible gleam;
That’s why we seldom in the thicket met
The solitary flower darkly red
Whose name in Russian is “dremA”: the dream.
1995
The dream
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112111810325
Свидетельство о публикации №112111810325
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