With the wide shawl, with the saffron scarf –
I’ll tame my wounds; I’ll dress up my scars.
With a hurdy-gurdy aloft I’ll climb,
And the saffron scarf will sparkle with chime.
As the rustle will cease – both of talks and cars. –
The city will hide with curtains its scars.
The sun will shuffle past screen of the night –
And the eyes of the river will open wide.
The shaggy crescent in clouds will seclude
And the squall will ruffle my dove-grey hood.
From the roof in my saffron scarf and a robe –
I’ll see the disrobing chasms of the Globe!
My dove-grey hood will flutter like a kite.
And my hurdy-gurdy will echo with light.
I hope, in chasms full of dirt and wounds –
Saffron’s whisper is heard with its marching tunes.
THE ORIGINAL: the 4-th poem from here: http://stihi.ru/2015/01/17/8371
Saffron March
© Copyright: Джерри-Агния Меркьюри, 2024
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