Mandelstam

The shy speechless sound
of a fruit falling frim its tree,
and around it the silent music
of the forest, unbroken

Fine fingers quiver;
a fragile body breathes:
a boat sliding across
fathomless silent seas

Like poppies, your eyebrows
open up a dangerous path.
Why am I in love like a janissary
with this tiny volatile red –
the pitful crescent of your lips

 

Osip Mandelstam

(Russia 1891-1938)

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