in golden jewelry,
her bust —
cannot take the eyes off —
decorated with
a kilogram of delicate armor,
ladies’ weapon of attack.
The shining of her gold smile
gave rise to everybody’s
love and envy. Such immense
that after the party the lady
was found in the mud murdered,
naturally without ornaments.
Just a millionth episode
in the history of despicable metal.
Cockerel, rural favorite
Don’t lie, the spirit of folly,
and perish, rumors pal,
prophesy, the wind God,
where the breeze comes from,
what wisdom and news
it will bring us today,
from the height will mock
stupid rumor peddlers.
Golden Scallop sees
a mile away, a sentry,
respects the joys of birdsong,
bites for dangerous slander.
The washed by rain, the neat
chief of over-roof spheres —
such it is, agreeable,
restless superstitious creaker.
An imperceptible second
Adieu! I brushed the unexpected,
returned a hoarse voice.
“No see.” No one to judge
a whitish salty from the eyes.
The lights turned off in the evening
Fancy dream birds
were spinning in my head.
I sat without light in the dark.
To perpetuate? Why not?
They write poems about serious,
but trifles are also proper.
Let them live. Enough
of my kindness on them.
On everything that moves, flies
over the years, I moved and flew.
I left blank these gaps:
by summer, Tisa34 on a raft,
on a yak through winter Tibet,
with the beloved in a gondola,
the most insulting.
Avid traveler, I’d like to settle,
to place my Flora-fantasy
by the sea in a new garden.
Lots of Jasmines, Honeydew.
Bougainvillea is everywhere.
Caressing the eye aviaries.
Streams shine here and there.
not lilacs without fragrance —
from the North of Russia.
Agave, cacti, I would order
from the heat of Arizona.
Narrow paths are where
you are waiting for them.
Somewhat asymmetric
giving flora a spree:
sprouts of thin bamboo,
coconut palms, plus
a pond with a lotus in the middle —
ex Oriente Lux35.
Please forgive the lightness
of unfulfilled dreams,
as real fulfilled ones,
though torn from the darkness.
The annual get-together with Indira Gandhi
The All India
University
founded
in Bengal
by wise Tagore,
who built
a literary town here
to be adored.
The Prime Minister
and official Chancellor
Indira Gandhi
arrives, wants
to meet
the best students.
Among others,
the Russian
is summoned in response.
She looks nervous,
but tries to smile,
listens
to his impressions,
told without wile,
interrupts:
“Professors say —
not for science
is your pen.
Better
become a poet.”
I didn’t follow then.
Continuity
Look. The wild geese of Tagore
continue their flight.
His life – thousands of lights,
abode of peace and beauty —
flashed in a single torch,
illuminating
not only Indian horizon,
and became a sunrise
of a new-born era.
Such closeness
we feel to him
due to the fantastic song,
sung perhaps
from the beginning
of man’s days.
This song tells us
about love and pride,
about victory of grit
upon distort.
It’s like a banner
of a relay-race,
carried by wise prophets.
Not every one of them
could save from vices,
but he could —
the mighty patriarch,
one of the most lyrical
of lyric poets,
himself a living example
for those who crave
for inexpensive praise.
The rivers of Bengal
are deep and shining.
His poems
are natural as them —
purification