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    O, Time...
    O, Time...
    O, Time...
    Ebook234 pages25 minutes

    O, Time...

    By Victoria Roshe

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    About this ebook

    Born in USSR, Victoria Roshe now lives in San Jose, California. She is a musician and a teacher of music. The sense of rhythm and melody is one of the traits that gives her poetry a very unique and haunting feel. She has published two poetry books in Russian, Aftertaste of pain and Little poems. This is a small, dual-language collection of her poetry.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAndrey Kneller
    Release dateMar 14, 2014
    ISBN9781311680372
    O, Time...

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      Book preview

      O, Time... - Victoria Roshe

      O, time, compacted into tight and rigid rings,

      Compressing us with every small contraction,

      A pain that seems so physical, it shrinks

      Each breath that we inhale by a fraction

      Of a second. But seconds, added up,

      Were once enough for me to build high towers.

      Time is a whip that never seems to stop

      For neither architects nor their creative powers.

      The paradox in their comparison unveils:

      A moment is too long, a century - too brief.

      These days are much like snakes that flash their tails,

      And rush to shed the skin and feel relieved.

      One needs a whole year to compose a three-

      Hundred-sixty-five paged novel. For a poem,

      One needs a life. But life is guaranteed

      To flash by in a moment, in a moment…

      ***

      Не говори о ней. Не смей дразнить судьбу

      Пустыми разговорами о смерти.

      Любой из нас окажется в гробу.

      Но преждевременно стремиться в эти сети -

      Кощунственно. Мысль сказанная вслух

      Приобретает магию молитвы.

      Поэтому молчи! Предчувствия золу

      Не вороши. Пусть будет монолитным

      Желанье жить. Наложенным табу,

      Своею клятвою, что тверже всякой тверди,

      Я сберегу тебя! Не смей дразнить судьбу

      Пустыми разговорами о смерти!

      ***

      Don’t say it. Don’t you mock your fate

      With meaningless and empty talks of death.

      Each one of us will end there, I’m afraid,

      But it is blasphemous, when there is time still

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