Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

      In a few days, we’ve been

      all-round Bombay3 paying

      no heed to anything anywhere.

      An event of the universal scale

      happened in our lives:

      for my timid declaration of love

      you agreed to be my bride.

      How could we endure the enormous

      joy raining down on us.

      We, so fortunate, roam

      the streets hugging one another

      so that not to fall

      under a heavy load to bear.

      The city smiles in comprehension.

      An engagement is without ceremonies,

      without diamond rings:

      wedding rings – right away.

      We just dared and bought the rings.

      We are to love.

      A promise is a promise:

      whether Indian heat or Russian

      frost – we are together —

      always, everywhere. After

      visiting galleries and shows,

      Mumbai seems to be

      a long abstract painting

      exclusive of a basic framework.

      We go and go…

      an end becomes a beginning…

      we go and go…

      Ooty4 is a special place

      in the center of South India.

      It’s chilly here all the time.

      Everybody in the country

      knows this peculiarity,

      but only those

      who have been here

      discern a different secret —

      the best kisses in India

      are only here, in Ooty.

      My fiancée is still sleeping.

      A sunrise beam hops

      on her dearest face,

      kissing her cheek chastely.

      I’m not too fond of the competition —

      a delicate kiss

      wakes her up —

      good morning,

      darling,

      and happy the day to you.

      Wake up quickly —

      a bus to the mountains

      departs soon.

      You better hurry up!

      Except for a driver,

      nobody is on the bus.

      I kiss your smile,

      but, inimitable,

      it vanished from sight.

      A different one – very much

      alike – takes its place.

      I won’t let it go past.

      After arrival, we are running

      through the woods to the hilltop

      for a long, sweet embrace.

      You are lost in my dream

      hovering above the scope

      of a kiss and return supple,

      to a certain point, though.

      Sensual view of highlands!

      Here love grows

      somewhat higher.

      The smell of herbage in the air

      stimulated my loving heart.

      Inflamed by the closeness to you,

      it pulsates, ready to jump out.

      What should I do?

      You are more sensual

      than a view of the highlands

      and so close to me.

      The heart lost control —

      it bolted like a horse.

      I can’t stop the gallop.

      Calm the balky with

      the quietest of your kisses.

      It won’t bear any other.

      A miraculous kiss, indeed.

      Its wings can carry us

      to any place and any century.

      Chosen is the Kashmiri valley.

      Long burning kiss

      brought a vision – or not? —

      we, two pigeons, were flying.

      Not too high, but we were.

      “We… were… flying?”

      “Yes, I was in the sky

      with you. Do it again.”

      This time the wind picked us up

      and brought us higher.

      We were really flying.

      Thirst! Quench it out of

      the jug of your lips, make

      the mouth moist

      and roundish – soft

      like the mouth

      of a clay jug,

      pour a potion of tenderness

      into me. Oh, so lovable!

      Just a Kashmiri sherbet.

      I can’t slake my thirst,

      can’t tear me away

      from the divine vessel,

      drink, and drink, and drink,

      and still can’t quench.

      To learn what your anger

      is capable of – to approach

      you from behind and kiss

      the neck by the left ear.

      You shudder, throw me

      by your back on the grass.

      The playfully angry

      goddess starts beating me

      with her quick kisses.

      Your punishment is pitiless —

      you leave your kisses

      unreciprocated.

      I endure,

      and