A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

A rose quartz vase shone on her dresser, and
the sandalwood immortals stood, all seven,
imported from a pine and dragon land
once governed by the Son of Heaven.

Upon her cold blue wall

was hung a single silken-tasseled scroll
brush-painted on parchment,
with craggy mountains and a waterfall
— the prized possession of her studio apartment.

And, head benignly bowed, Kwan-Yin in jade

graced her teak night stand and her mystic soul.
Yet somehow this decor forever made
the impression of stage props for a miscast role.

As if these things were images in a glass

that traveling by reflect their face and pass
— a hollow echo's alien report
from a forbidden city's empty court.

536. «Once on the Moika lived a man…» [240]

Once on the Moika lived a man —
an oldster — who had stacks of books,
and knew this one, that one. Yet
that's not the reason why my friend
would urge me — on the run — to come
and meet him, but because he thought
that meeting would bring joy to both.
We'd grasp each other in a flash,
we share one sorrow, speak one tongue,
the shade of a forgotten bard!
I planned to go so many times,
but rain, some business, or «too late»,
«not in the mood», «he's indisposed» —
and next I heard it: «He has died».
My visit cancelled now, for good,
and who can tell me «it's put off?»

[1950s]

537. The Snake

Silent all its life, it produces beautiful

music after death.

The earth is dry, the summer has been hot.
Dead russet stubble bristles in the rocks
of my small garden, few and pale the blooms
on gently tended shrubs.
The air is still.

Without a rustle over sand and clay,

graceful and grey, slithers a winding snake
and disappears between the cracks of stone,
small silent creature, harmless, in its home.

Night smoothes away day's blemishes and scars,

and grasses reach to feel her cooling hand.
I pick a banjo from my wall, to strum.
Its tightly covered snakeskin body sings.

[1950s]

538. Goodbye for Now [241]

For V.V.