Но Лондон звал твое внимание.Твой взор...
А.С.Пушкин
But London called you,
Your attention, your look…
Not for me your gentle smile,
The painting would not take shape on my canvas,
I was torn with jealousy.
Your cooling tea, your untouched eclair,
Your gesture, novel yet unmistakable
Proclaimed aloud in the open:
Your coming escape, hanging in the April air.
Beethoven's sonata N17, its end, came to mind.
Though it was not musical images, but notes
Which stirred my memory.
For whom was he yearning - or from whom was his heart shrinking?
I opened a jar of bright paint and hurled it at the canvas
Which suddenly was lit up by poetry.
Poetry - it's being young.