Broad
boulevards of Moscow
lived
as long as her people kept
their
living trees and heard
them
softly sing and speak
on
the wave of waltzing breeze
and
as long as almost each,
whether
of the people or
of
the gently trembling trees,
carried
them a verse or two,
if
not even a whole book
where
a heart might dwell
and
be and grow new wings
there
on a shaded bench
so
that once out of the blue
the
heart may love in truth
and
be found and read and open,
and
inside there you could see
a
garden suitable for two—
or
a gallery with fine Galatea
just
about to wink and move.
And
then very early morning
when
sleep still had its hold
and
the sky still went on deep,
you
too might go out and see
how
the night began to change
its
color and see-through garb
and
differently then you would
taste
and breathe the air not yet
versed
or plucked or combed
through
the sound or the strings
or
the bowing dream of skin,
and
if lucky was your native star,
then
there from afar you might
sip
and sense the surge of Volga,
Amur,
Don or Yenisei flowing
through
the boundless space
just
as village churches’ bells
somewhere
stir and rise to clink
inside
their molded, embossed rings,
knocking
on the gates and doors—
to
Gods unseen and forlorn Russian souls.
