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Just tell me, dear grass, how come you to your place, –
Cut up the air in freshness of your mission,
Tell me about berth of superstition,
Where hides a fern the flower of grace.
Tell me the secret of your magic words,
Of your allure and hidden aspirations, —
With your green knifes, you lift, in your progression,
The concrete, lying in a few hard lodes.
You go through asphalt in full your rights,
Ready for flood, and ready to be frozen,
… Thus poetry has grown through the prose.
I pray, dictate me your great canon, Grass!
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/yevgeny/miscellaneous/morits/just_tell_me_dear_grass.html
Cut up the air in freshness of your mission,
Tell me about berth of superstition,
Where hides a fern the flower of grace.
Tell me the secret of your magic words,
Of your allure and hidden aspirations, —
With your green knifes, you lift, in your progression,
The concrete, lying in a few hard lodes.
You go through asphalt in full your rights,
Ready for flood, and ready to be frozen,
… Thus poetry has grown through the prose.
I pray, dictate me your great canon, Grass!
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/yevgeny/miscellaneous/morits/just_tell_me_dear_grass.html
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