Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

      Kolkata airport. A room

      for Very Important Persons.

      The flight is delayed.

      A young diplomat’s boss

      turns to a lousy style—

      swears, smears, curses.

      Enters the Dalai Lama —

      greatness plus simplicity.

      The boss quiets, disappears,

      with him – vanity, felicities.

      The young diplomat

      tells the Dalai Lama

      that as a student

      he’d traveled in India

      for half a year,

      then saw a vision:

      the Sixth Guru of the Sikhs

      and the young man

      were walking on the sea

      like on the land.

      The Guru, gazing, prophesied:

      “You would be asleep

      for half of your life,

      busy like a puppet.

      You would be

      awake in the other country,

      a poet like a nugget.”

      The Dalai Lama thinks,

      consults a book, explains:

      “Yes, it’s true,”

      awards him life chains.

      Daily on vacation, we remove

      clothes at a leisurely rate.

      It’s slow to unfurl

      a sari… you Indian, wait.

      An improvised visit to Japan.

      A tea and a kimono surprise.

      Madam Butterfly undresses,

      narrowing her large eyes.

      Women in the Emirates wear

      sacks with slits to see us.

      They also inspire passion —

      no time to finish her namaz.

      Blessed is Gauguin, who gave

      the idea – a Tahiti savage

      in the only loincloth. I feast

      my eyes, preparing to ravage.

      “Long Road Ahead!” “Eh, Once!”

      “Ai Da Nu – Da Dai!”

      in the soul, they live and whisper:

      “Poet-spinner, you catch.”

      “Coachman, Hold Your Horses,”

      “Tiny brook” are written. Trouble!

      I fall in a thoughtful mood —

      what will the bait spin?

      Gypsy songs, chavela,

      still own their fisheries —

      heady, free humor,

      eh, its width and breadth.

      Dance lovely, sing —

      “deceptive speech” is served.

      It is worth nothing

      to the rich man of cordial words.

      1. Till daybreak

      Beware of a Gipsy gaze,

      don’t trust – or I’ll bewitch,

      plunge a dagger of love

      in your heart, give a twitch.

      Chorus:

      A tari-tari-tari,

      a tari-ta,

      tari-tari-tari,

      tari-ta.

      Dare for an infernal night,

      I, witch in a flash,

      will shower kisses on you,

      make you tight, refresh.

      Chorus

      You want to be in pain,

      I’ll torture, conceal in my hair.

      Bestow your ring, and ah! —

      till dawn is Gipsy care.

      Chorus

      If needles of passion itch,

      torment your soul, call

      to burn in breasts, if yes,

      a fire won’t be small.

      Chorus

      2. Friday

      Happen to love a Gipsy,

      I want a horse to mount.

      Life – a new penny —

      turns to good account.

      Disordered, life suddenly

      is flooded with joy,

      cheerless dismal days

      become full-blooded.

      I’ll give a Gipsy band

      and myself beside

      to drink – let us sing

      about liberty and pride.

      A ring rolls on and on

      because you know it’s Friday,

      rolls on, and on, and on —

      today is Happy Friday.

      Take a sip of beauty —

      here’s your wit’s end.

      Intend to love a Gipsy?

      Have the fortune to spend.

      All my might is vanishing

      but I want as much again,

      all the night is vanishing

      but I want as much again.

      3. Gitana’s love

      Gitana will not tolerate

      betrayal, will beg a dagger

      help to end the harm

      when I prefer to die.

      Chorus:

      He deceived our fortune,

      gypsy happiness heat,

      took the wings from the crane,

      how to fly without wings.

      He broke fidelity archly,

      got underneath the pledge.

      It’s okay if fate blackens,

      treachery steals my force.

      Chorus

      Farewell,