The poetry is dark. I can’t find words to tell
How moved I was by this wild solitary slant.
The empty stony dale, the hills that sheeps infest,
The shepherd’s smoky fire, the bitterness of scent !
My heart was strangely glad and tortured seeing this,
It said: “Come back, come back, it’s there you need to rest!”
The distant smoke puffed sweet into my yearning breast,
With envy and regret, I go past mountain crest.
The poetry's not what the world would call it,
It’s in the heritage that I forever hold.
The greater heritage, the greater is the poet.
I tell myself when sensed the dark forgotten trace
Of what my ancestor had known in ancient days:
- All souls are one, and timeless is their pace.
1916/2012
* * *
В горах
Ivan Bunin - In the Mountains
© Copyright: Виктор Постников, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112022711147
Свидетельство о публикации №112022711147
Рецензии