Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices
Sergey Gribov
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Translated by Alex Sitnitsky
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The ox's eye was swollen by a tear,
Which grew like a mound and vexed,
Mirroring a yard, a haystack at the rear
And a crimson butt of an ax,
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A light evening, so dense and dusty,
An old willow, a gold-field of brooks,
And the fences, the lilac-tree's cluster,
And the pages of all our books.
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Oh, my God, the righteous, omnipotent,
From above you see better, of course.
But you also, you also were spotted
With all celestial glory of yours.