Friday, 22 July 2016

В Борисовата градина/In Boris gardens


And I remember the poets,
the bronze busts lining the path,
and with so few words to rely on –
unable at least to distinguish between
their work and their reputation –
remaining complicit in that silence.

But the living here were intent
on different accommodations
and we resided too in a reunion:
whatever history there was
accumulated in every word –
a friendship coming into focus

as we walked through that heat
and did what we could in photographs
of our jet-trail coincidences –
the ones which brought us up and out
of where we’d been before –
the words which were understood
no matter what the language.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

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