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Creation

Творчество

My words spawned giants,
and they sat guzzling wine
all night, crimson wine,
horrible wine.

I would not have known such weariness
had they been drinking my blood;
Dawn’s fingers were running across
my back when I fell asleep.

I woke when it was evening.
The swamps were breathing mist,
a heavy, uncomfortable breeze
blew warm from the southern gates.

And suddenly I felt an immense wound,
an intense sorrow that there had been a day
without me, a day that passed while I slept,
passed and was gone where it pleased...

If I could run where the light went, and catch it!
But I have no power
to rip up this sinister notebook,
my book of dark phantoms and visions of night.

Другие переводы:

  • Литовский
    Гинтарас Патацкас
    Kūryba

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