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Denis Bezmelnitsin
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Mafate. Maïdo
Echo lurked 'mid rocks, in rifts,
In the fissures deep of cliffs;
Echo rambled in the brake
On untrodden forest lanes,
Saying loud, saying calmly,
"Hark O lover, hither come!
Rise upon the Maïdo peak,
Listen there wind how speak..."
Sickle-crescent hanging low,
Stretch your hand and touch it; slow
Flow the hours of night away,
Only crescent desolate...
Wind upon the summit strolls
Crooning French medieval songs...
Only pallid sail and breath
Dream at night in quietness.
"O the love, you heart expand,
You do charm
The soul, bestow upon
It wings..." Romantic wind keeps on the song,
"What gone, - if pond of heart
More clean and pure hath become -
It was right path... With us
Here seat, O dreamer, contemplate
The reveries of this nocturnal main;
The dripping hours, drop after drop
Make sounds as scarce felt rain, but what
Remains? The lays and songs...
They are the soul of moments gone, -
Belonging to the timelessness..." Expended night,
Just handful last to drink; so nigh
The morn, got silent rhyme...
April 2018
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