Thursday, July 30, 2020

Elegy for Moscow Boulevards


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.

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