Sunday, November 15, 2015

I dream of grass, of clouds and rain

Late Sunday afternoon, and we luckily managed to snatch an hour down at the Allotment ... and despite the lateness of the season, and the dying light, there was still some colour in one of the flower beds :-)

Like many, I'm certain - I've been thinking a lot about Paris today; which (for me) along with San Francisco, London, and Edinburgh of course; has to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world ...

... but given all the circumstances of recent days, I'm reminded of these lines written by Marina Tsvetaeva, the famous Russian poet, who lived in Paris in the 1920's:

In Paris

Homes reach the stars, the sky's below,
The land in smoke to it is near.
Inside the big and happy Paris
Remains the secretive despair.

The evening boulevards are noisy,
Gone are the sundown's final rays,
And there are couples everywhere
Trembling of lips, daring of eyes.

I'm here alone. To trunk of chestnut
It is so nice one's head to lean!
And like in the abandoned Moscow
In heart weep verses of Rostand.

Paris at night is sad and alien,
Dear to the heart is madness gone!
I'm going home, there's vial of sorrow
And tender portrait of someone.

There's someone's glance, sad and fraternal.
There's tender profile on the wall.
Rostand and the Reichstadtian martyr
And Sara - in sleep come they all!

Within the big and happy Paris
I dream of grass, of clouds and rain
And laughter far, and shadow near,
And deep just like before is pain.      


Marina Tsvetaeva (1892 - 1941)


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