By Osip Emilievich Mandelstam, 1920—translated by Dzvinia Orlowsky A little sun,HoneyLike the bees of PersephoneNo onecan free a boatunanchored, hear the shadowshod in fur, track down fearthis dense forest.We are left with kisses,Tinglingtiny bees that dieOn leaving their hiveRustlingIn translucent underbrush ofTheir night.Home:Taygetus’ thick wood,Their nourishment isclover mint andTimeTake my gifta simple
