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Denis Bezmelnitsin
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Lunar Rivulet
Il y a les fleuves qui ne remontent pas leur cours
Il y a l'amour qui m'entraîne avec douceur
Guillaume Apollinaire
Sing me a song, O maiden-moon,
While you repose in arbour of the eve -
The place of meditation, which produce
The lunar rivulet; at night it streams,
And dreaming poets glean the lunar stones
Therein... O muse of night, please sing!
And melt my heart away... Thy song
I crave, this wine to drink,
Be drunk on love, and loiter all night long
Lost in sweet melody,
A poesy, the lunar song.
My angel, Robyn, do you like
To stroll among the wandering clouds?
There is my home, there I abide
On summit of a drifting mount.
There forsaken cherry orchard grows,
Like mirage, sunken in the rays of sun;
And matin of the cheerful birds there flows,
Like rill in vernal mood at dawn.
Away, away with me in garden's shade,
I long, I crave... Thine eyes -
These running fuddling waves...
You know, I am in friendship with a moon,
Oftimes I rest upon a rocky shore,
Listening to her, alone in gloom...
Before me ocean dark as ink,
And stars - calligraphy of God;
And moon, she croons to me
The songs you've never heard.
I know, one day, my chant and thine
Will meet, and mingle into rhyme -
One lovely flying rhyme.
April 2017
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Bezmelnitsin's Gallery
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