Winter, to me your gestures are
cold and careful: yes, in
winter there is something
gentle as medicine,
or why else would sickness
put out trusting hands
into that season, from its own
torture and darkness?
Weave your magic then
my love, let the kiss
of one curl of ice
brush over my forehead.
Soon I shall trust any
deception, and look without fear
into the eyes of dogs, as I
press close to the trees:
And forgive, playfully, with a
run, turn and jump; and
after a bout of forgiveness
forgive again,
become like a winter’s day:
empty and oval, though
in comparison to such
presence, always small.
I shall turn to nothing, and
so call over the wall,
not some shadow of myself, but light
I shall not block at all.
О жест зимы ко мне,
холодный и прилежный.
Да, что-то есть в зиме
от медицины нежной.
Иначе как же вдруг
из темноты и муки
доверчивый недуг
к ней обращает руки?
О милая, колдуй,
заденет лоб мой снова
целебный поцелуй
колечка ледяного.
И все сильней соблазн
встречать обман доверьем,
смотреть в глаза собак
и приникать, к деревьям.
Прощать, как бы играть,
с разбега, с поворота,
и, завершив прощать,
простить еще кого-то.
Сравняться с зимним днем,
с его пустым овалом,
и быть всегда при нем
его оттенком, малым.
Свести себя на нет,
чтоб вызвать за стеною
не тень мою, а свет,
не заслоненный мною.
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