Стихи Джозефа Фазано в переводах Ала Пантелята

Joseph Fasano
Moon in the Dark Pines

Tonight, however you tell it, my mother
is leaning down in her sleep to sniff of the linens
of a drowned boy

once more, the birds of October
around her. What is winter
if not her first child, lying on the plowland

in his dark wool, wolf fur in his whalebone
buttons, his jackal heart curled
down again, in clove?

Nights like this
she would sing with him, leaning back
with a blossom on her forehead, keeping him

from the cadence of diminishment.
She would hold him from the wings of sip and scatter.
But the giants of Western music say, Surrender.

Always I discover her
in her night-things, the gold coins of nostalgia
in her fingers. She knows, as well as song

does, there is no cure. O winter-
ing, we lie
awhile, singing,

May beginning find no comfort in this house.