Once upon a time, upon a little hill, lived a Squirrel and a Tree, who loved each other with an abandon that knew not race nor age. The Squirrel well knew each of the Tree's branches, his lovesome leaves and fragrant bloom, she knew and reveled in the resin that flowed in his veins and gladly ate the fruits he offered her. The Tree well knew each of the Squirrel 's hairs, her tender talons and caring eyes, he knew and delighted in the dew that adorned her fur and lief warded the nuts she offered him.
But Spring soon left the Tree, then Summer came to take his flowers and rot his fruits, then Autumn came to steal his lush leaves, then Winter came to freeze the resin rivers within him. And as each Season passed, the Squirrel asked the Tree: "Why have you changed? Your gifts are gone, our love has lessened." The Tree replied each time: "'Tis but the seasons, do wait a while and I'll be born afresh." But the Squirrel did not believe, and wildly pushed the Tree away with its small mitts. But the Tree would never move.
The end of Winter came at last, and the Tree's life flowed once again, he grew once more; but the Squirrel did not look up to see, but long stared at the dry roots and softly spoke: "You are bark but I am flesh, my colour's fire but water is your life, you are stillness but I am motion. We are too different." She closed her eyes and pushed the Tree with all her might, and so great was her thrust that she fell back and rolled down from the hill. When she did open her eyes, the Tree was nowhere to be seen.
They say, soon after came the fallers and struck down the Tree, and from his body fashioned the pages on which these tales are written. Others claim a Blackbird made its nest within the Tree and stayed, for it knew much of Seasons and their ways, finding gifts in each of them. There are those who say that as the Tree waited for the Squirrel to find her way back, his fruits dried and turned chestnuts. Perhaps you know the End?
The end of Winter came at last, and the Tree's life flowed once again, he grew once more; but the Squirrel did not look up to see, but long stared at the dry roots and softly spoke: "You are bark but I am flesh, my colour's fire but water is your life, you are stillness but I am motion. We are too different." She closed her eyes and pushed the Tree with all her might, and so great was her thrust that she fell back and rolled down from the hill. When she did open her eyes, the Tree was nowhere to be seen.
They say, soon after came the fallers and struck down the Tree, and from his body fashioned the pages on which these tales are written. Others claim a Blackbird made its nest within the Tree and stayed, for it knew much of Seasons and their ways, finding gifts in each of them. There are those who say that as the Tree waited for the Squirrel to find her way back, his fruits dried and turned chestnuts. Perhaps you know the End?
Любовь стараясь удержать,
ReplyDeleteКак саблю тянем мы её:
Один — к себе — за рукоять,
Другой — к себе — за остриё.
Любовь стараясь оттолкнуть,
На саблю давим мы вдвоём:
Один — эфесом — другу в грудь,
Другой — под сердце — остриём.
А тот, кто лезвие рукой
Не в силах больше удержать,
Когда-нибудь в любви другой
Возьмёт охотно рукоять.
И рук, сжимающих металл,
Ему ничуть не будет жаль,
Как будто он не испытал —
Как режет сталь, как ранит сталь!
Евг.Агранович, 1955
"И всех, кого любил,
ReplyDeleteЯ разлюбить уже не в силах!
А легкая любовь
Вдруг тяжелеет
И опускается на дно.
И там, на дне души,
Загустевает, как в погребе зарытое вино."
-- Давид Самойлов