* * *
Before the beginning of beginnings clumsy Virgil
to all poets, born in vain,
God knows why bequeathed hopeless
sadness of his genial creations.
* * *
Silence like a silence,
silent, forgotten, waiting for the call,
it is, like a bent willow,
that leaned over the water
in its thoughtful greatness,
and voices, like childish birds
with incredible simplicity
rankle it – what’s wrong with you?
* * *
One insists,
that all this is a lie,
other insists,
that this is very strange,
but I’ve seen myself,
like early morning
the crows pecked
eyes of the dew.
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