by Osip Mandelstam
Your marvelous pronunciation --
The scorching whistle of birds of prey;
Or should I say: a living impression
Of some sort of silken eyelashes.
-- What? -- your head grew heavy...
-- Alright? -- I am calling you.
And in the distance, rustling:
I, too, live on earth.
Let them say love has wings.
Death has a hundred more;
My soul is filled with strife,
But our lips fly to it.
So much air and silk and
Wind in your whisper,
Like blind men, through the long night
We drink a sunless mixture.
Last updated January 14, 2019