Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Maria Stepanova

In a warmish gloom. That your soul like a sickly cloud Curls alongside, scorning a form, Doesn’t come to me. While we lie, resting ourselves, Armies battle thunderously, Bare feet walk through clay, I hear from below in a long night Dove-grey terrors. Thus above our perishable skin, Like a frog’s pelt God’s own morning takes its place With a light ripple.

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