Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

      She loves,

      I am loved —

      thanks for the gift.

      He loves,

      I am loved —

      thanks for it.

      Love,

      and love in return —

      nothing is happier.

      I love you in you,

      resembling and imitating no one,

      always utterly new.

      Love is truly finer

      than its cheap comparisons

      to the luminaries,

      diamonds,

      gold.

      Why then your body,

      a tiny bit of the Moon,

      so mat-snow-white,

      so cryptic thrilling

      is its coloring,

      transforms a night bed

      into a moonlit couch?

      Well, moonbeam. Really.

      Not only my eyes and heart

      keep our moments together

      in their memory —

      the cells of my body,

      emotions of the nerves store

      your light mental imagery.

      They all kept a diary

      when we were together.

      After having had fallen

      in love with the captive,

      they did not let her go

      out of their embrace.

      Fifty trillion bits —

      a mosaic mind of the cells —

      get together in a second

      generating your double,

      and they like to do it often.

      Familiar sounds of the tide.

      A gull brings an image

      compression – the elegant hands,

      the hands of my passion,

      whiter than a white dove

      lighter than a poplar down.

      “No, no, tenderer,”

      the thoughts come aloud.

      “Loves no more. Cheer up,”

      says a tidal wave.

      “She doesn’t need you,”

      repeats the other wave.

      The third one: “Dive.

      We will caress, whirl

      and bring to the deep.

      You will discover our

      world without minutes,

      without weep.”

      “Don’t drivel, waves.

      Sweeter are our homes.

      She loves me.

      Not you – her hands

      will give the warmth.”

      A blunder occurs in spirits:

      frown and scowl are debits.

      I recall your smile and again

      I’m prompt, supple, no brain.

      A fool is unhappy in happiness.

      A sage is happy with the little.

      A man who owns-protects

      his wife’s wit non-altered,

      her beauty after the altar,

      is a foolish sage, never falters.

      The thirst dried up

      my sincere heart.

      I gulp you —

      the recurring to life —

      from the spring

      of your scarlet lips,

      and cannot slake.

      A pert desire

      pierced you with light,

      lit up your face,

      drew away from

      the immediate work,

      turned your eyes

      and arms to me,

      forgot all about

      who usually started

      an amorous ceremonial.

      On the oceanic coast of Orissa29

      are dozens of gigantic turtles —

      seven-foot their shells.

      You, lying on the shell,

      become a human-amphibian.

      On the next one,

      you assume the pose of Lakshmi

      standing on the heavenly turtle.

      In response, I depict the second

      incarnation of Vishnu into a turtle.

      The ocean monsters

      bear the jokes,

      not moving in any way.

      We decide to arrange

      a racing

      on top of the Mesozoic beasts

      but advance, clearly,

      at a turtle’s pace.

      This makes us bored.

      We drive them to the ocean,

      and there the turtles acquire

      the knack of pearl divers,

      in a flash, vanish in the depth.

      What’s beauty?

      New forms

      of music and art creations,

      giving spice

      to ear and eye stimulation?

      She, not