Certain words' breath and color might be
White as blossom and chilling as gossip,
But among, none is sadder than thee,
Nor more tender than thee, the "impossible".
Not yet knowing you, I was your groom
By the sounds strayed in the velour,
By the flickering light of the tomb,
Limbs in twilight, unwilling, unsure.
But for real, in a wreath of white mums,
At the gate of oblivion hazard,
Tender puff of M, P, S becomes
Outlined as a blade of a razor.
And by having retained you as bride
Decorated as Maiden of April,
By the door I hang outside,
Dumb reluctant to ring the awake ring.
If the words fall as blossom, by one,
Chilling white, on the road to fossil,
None is less than afflicted among,
But the one I love is the "impossible".
Original: www.stihi-rus.ru/1/Annenskiy/50.htm
The Impossible
© Copyright: Lxe, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115122304512
Свидетельство о публикации №115122304512
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