| How is it to see this morning, how is it to breathe? Air is thick before a storm, thick and viscous. What am I to sing this morning, what am I to hear? Mantic birds are singing, all are from a mythos. Birds of Sirin are playfully grinning: Occupying, and urging to their nests, And across are, lamenting and grieving, Soul tormenting odd birds of Alkonost. Like old precious seven chords, Ringing out, each in its turn: That is birds of Gamayun Are suggesting hope. In the vault of heaven, punctured by belfries, There's a brass toll, there's a brass toll: If it has rejoiced or is being cross... Domes are roofed, in Russia, with a layer of pure gold So the Lord took more notice of hers. I am standing, as if facing an eternal riddle, Looking over great and mythical climes, Ruminating o'er a salty-bitter-sour-sweet Azure land of welling waters and rye. Champing, floundering in greasy and rusty mud, Up to stirrups, horses get stuck, Nonetheless, they drag me on by a drowsy land, That is swollen from slumber, and slack. As if seven harvest moons On my way, were rising o'er: That is birds of Gamayun Are suggesting hope. To the soul, confused by losses, costs and bereavements, To the soul, frayed by disagreements, Lest the skin be thinned away till it hurts, I'll apply the patches of pure gold So the Lord took more notice of hers. |
