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.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

               *   *   *                          
Странно стариться,
Очень странно.
Недоступно то, что желанно.
Но зато бесплотное весомо -
Мысль, любовь и дальний отзвук грома.
--David Samoilov 

It's strange, the aging, 
                                     strange.
Unattainable what one desires. 
But incorporeal is weighty -  
a thought, love and thunder's distant echo.

(Strange is the aging, 
Very strange. 
Unattainable what you desire.
But incorporeal is weighty -  
Thought, love and thunder's distant echo.)
 
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)