New stanzas to Augusta, XII

                "Новые стансы к Августе"
                (Иосиф Бродский)


                XII
Euterpe, is that you? Tell, where did I wander?
And what's here under me: grass? water?
a heather lyre's shoot
that's bent in such a horseshoe
it seems like happiness,
such, maybe, how to switch
to ambling from galloping
so fast and not confuse a speech,
know this neither you nor Calliope.


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