LIKE A DANDY OF LONDON DRESSED AS A SOLDIER OF LOVE IN SPRING

You see, every plot is different. One flew away, another remained. The rowan berries ripened, and each bunch blushes with anger and bows in pity. But we, like wings, puffing out our sleeves, fly, leaving our native fire pit, and confuse words of joy with sorrow, until we find refuge again.

You see, every plot is different. One flew away, another remained. The rowan berries ripened, and each bunch blushes with anger and bows in pity. But we, like wings, puffing out our sleeves, fly, leaving our native fire pit, and confuse words of joy with sorrow, until we find refuge again.

You see, every plot is different. One flew away, another remained. The rowan berries ripened, and each bunch blushes with anger and bows in pity. But we, like wings, puffing out our sleeves, fly, leaving our native fire pit, and confuse words of joy with sorrow, until we find refuge again.

As in previous years, storms decide everything. And the steep stern rises on the crest, And your island disappears into the distance. I wish I could not shake off the remnants of my mind from the tossing, And hide from sharp memories; And not see through the wide-open window, Not know beneath me the rocky bottom Of a solitary fleeting fate, Not catch the cloth Of Cutty Sark, slipped into eternity—that short shirt.

Whisper, hum a melody of sleep And lose yourself in the open window frame, Where wild fogs roam, Where the unclimbed peak is dimly visible And oceans float beneath your feet; And the earth's unshed tears are bitter, And your ships wheeze alongside them, Moored at the docks forever, And memory struggles – how could you Deal so inhumanely

Whisper, hum a melody of sleep And lose yourself in the open window frame, Where wild fogs roam, Where the unclimbed peak is dimly visible And oceans float beneath your feet; And the earth's unshed tears are bitter, And your ships wheeze alongside them, Moored at the docks forever, And memory struggles – how could you Deal so inhumanely

Down to every detail, down to every little thing, These days will live within me: All the smells, sounds, vivid images— My memory will retain everything. But memory, alas, is strangely selective, And at odds with reason: What seemed important fades into the trash, But long retains triviality