Why am I trailing you,
now through a pine-wood, now
through the words I write,
going nowhere fast?
There’s a gypsy encampment on the steppes,
newly moved in—sharp fires gone
by morning; the stamped ash
surrenders no clue or forwarding address.
I am in the pinewoods, trailing you.
There you were, like memory, a shackle.
Cling to me, you said.
Voronezh, January 1937
2 comments by 0 or more people
11 Aug 2012, 12:41
Wow,The Poetry is very wonderful! It is helpful for me in writing.[http://www.ehermeshandbagshop.com/blog Mike Blog]
05 Nov 2012, 03:51
Add a commentYou are not allowed to comment on this entry as it has restricted commenting permissions.