By Boris Poplavsky
Laughed out-loud the people by the column
Where, so strangely posed, the moon would stand.
And the eve would reek of sharp colognes,
Of the dancer girls and rich cafes.
Autumn crept into the heart of summer ,
Leaves turned orange overhead the bridge
And some skeletons upon their carts were running
Galleries, orangeades.
And within this gamma, that its beauty lowered,
Heat would snore upon the belly, bridge-side street,
All the female legs he'd be observing,
With his dust the dandy pants would streak.
People would get mad, yet, not igniting,
Gave themselves to suffocating slow.
And the second heat would come in by the evening.
And by night the third one would await the souls.
But the lilac darkness, so desired,
Spread apart the minds, broke up the lips;
And the youth would whistle with sly fire
To the girl sans horns or tail upon her hips.
And within the lilac aura aura
Walked out, ever terrible and cute,
Walked into the skyways Laura Laura
And behind her: singer in his crimson suit.
Dimly beat the blackest-toned timpani,
Choirs of Eris answered from the Void,
And replied July like Faust a centaur riding,
Broken up its heat within the nightly murk.
But beside the flash confusion of the spirits
Wind would put the garden on its knees.
Quiet laughter births beneath the ears
And above the train depot now dims:
Helen, she: that queen of terrors...
And behind her all of Troy's Apollos,
With the golden birds within their hands,
Got exalted in their aereols of mauve,
In the clouds a darkened blood-trace left.
And the moon would sing a snowy Eden.
Rustles rainclouds' inky rushing pall.
And, with some last phrase still ever-playing,
Thunder fell upon black arsenals.
And within the sudden flame so fleeting,
Like upon a bright pink seashell, she
Now appeared to us just calmly sleeping,
On the golden waves that bubble in the sea