Light-hearted Paris does the same,
In style Francisco does its trading.
But I don’t trade. In heavenly flame
I’m flying o’er the Earth as softly
as one flew once o’er a cuckoo’s nest ...
My eyes attentively I’d open,
I want to witness: they molest
and torture Earth. Then bitter crying
will lull them into drunken sleep.
They want their babes but hide their money.
By night, the moon would lower creep
there, where it finds uneasy comfort
before the sun’s uneasy rise.
And hail would play its drums on rooftops.
Plants bloom. And grass does grow in size.
And hide the marshes’ wily patches
in forests. And the clouds bluff.
A swarm of butterflies nocturnal
would softly rustle by. And slough
surrenders fast to growing thistle
that pushes up the organ’s pipes.
And sparkling, glamorous Isaiah
would harvest hash with grinning guise…
With lofty wickedness sly mutants
would call forth raging of the gods.
The river, as a ballet-dancer,
Would slither in-between the banks.
A shattered feast a la Picasso...
...and falsity with Jesus’ face
would fill a soul with aching acid,
with wooly spider’s ugly maze.
…I’m flying leisurely and sadly,
forgetful of my traitor friends,
forgiving all! When sultry current
through gates closed noiselessly transcends
and creeps into a shabby castle
that’s belted by a black ravine -
there, see - a precious blooming garden,
there, o’er the cuckoo’s nest, unseen,
I’m floating low, my pace is slow,
my dreams are quick as angry row,
and empty is my vault, pristine…
*перевод стихотворения "Жёлтый сон" сделан Михаилом Вороненко и публикуется с его разрешения.
http://www.grafomanam.net/poems/view_poem/152872/