The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

To You

(A. Josef's Theme)

I love You so. I love You when
I feel Your back, Your voice, Your shoulder,
You shroud me with Your whole body
like waterfall or pouring rain!


I love to be inside Your fate,
Your doubts and Your perturbation,
I wish Your faint blood circulation
were open, like a green garden gate.


Blessed be the fruit of good intent,
Your drowning bosom, and your lenience!
I've chosen You out of millions
just for that reason, dear friend.


Like leaves of bushes, thin and fine,
I feel Your lungs pulsate and shiver.
I hear Your entrails, Your liver,
You are all pure and divine!


Why has life taken such a course?
I only want when days break out
to see a glass, a hand stretched out
marked with a blue vein of Yours.


--Andrey Voznesensky
Translated by Alec Vagapov
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