Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow
glossy snow-white
captivating virgin body
is one of the Himalayan peaks.
Yesterday we saw it
in the full moonlight.
Just a general contour
without going into details —
your body will exist as such
because you dress,
take me away from the sin.
The wedding night
Your body
is a snowdrop in the tropics,
only red roses
reminded us about India
on the outside.
Their petals weren’t able
to compare with your skin,
so down them from the bed.
A northern eye rejoiced
at white
on white color
without common
at Indian weddings
tracery, aromatizing, ornamentation.
For you,
this stuff was superfluous,
indeed.
Can you improve the sea?
For a long time
I’d been waiting for the moment,
while for a few more minutes
I admired the past-future
taking you out of the foam.
Never knew
I could hold a sea,
thrilled with delight,
oh, yes, in my hands.
Breasts-hips-waves
toppled me over
and caressed
burning with inner coolness.
The fanfare exaltation of the body,
inaccessibly near before,
of the glamorous maidenly figure
sunny naked and unadorned!
Never knew
I could embrace
the braids of the Sun,
trembling and passing me
the fire agitation
of the strained to the limit passion.
The unachievable celestial being
came down, converted into
a terrestrial splendor,
and only arms and legs
still air flows,
spicy predicted:
a storm would become.
Never knew
I could whirl weightlessly
here on the happiness shore
like in starry space.
To conclude,
the storm began.
Once we had become one,
the black horse shot up,
blended the elements,
and dashed off
straight to the center of paradise.
Where was it?
What was the name of the Deity
to whose feet
the black horse dropped us,
still hugging, still kissing
but more and more
losing our strength and ardor.
The presence of a third person
didn’t disturb us long.
In no time
we concealed in each other,
forgot about him,
listening to the performed in our honor
music of the center of the Universe.
Millennia of love
The reward of the eyes,
delight of the heart,
we are together,
as in the past.
End storytelling,
no more, Sheherazáde!22
Excited, you
go on and on.
Fragrant hair.
Charming figure.
Are you here?
No photo. You are.
Your only gaze
subdues my anguish.
It makes me not crazy
as before.
The spell of gestures,
brisk tirades
uplift me whirling
to the novelty of honey.
Encircle with yourself!
Make glow with bliss!
Fit-out captivating,
long-awaited pains.
Toy trolls
of our daughter
add plenty
of magnetism to you,
energy to me,
pour love-potion
into our bodies,
and return to their shelf.
Wishful, caring
are your hugs —
slanting shoulders’
precipitous brinks.
Falling into a stream,
crying, I invoke,
“I love, and you
saved our love!”
What a fever —
the edge of waiting.
How bright
are your appealing eyes.
Speeding up,
we go with the current:
an impetuous torrent,
a cherished stream.
The beat of love —
a millennia instinct —
rejects the laws
of civilizations.
The bodies-beasts
interlace into one
in a fiery game
of improvisations.
A folly and a glee,
mixed in a flash,
a vortex of infinite
imperious longings,
the exultation of oneness,
tempest of senses
with the