Vladimir Mayakovsky

Listen!

Listen,
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.
And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand that starless ordeal.
Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.
And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'
Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

Fedor Tutchev

AUTUMN EVENING

There is a wistful charm, a tenderness,

Mysterious and soft, in autumn's even:

The trees in weird and brilliant garments dress,

The gory leaves to whispered talk are given;

Above the sad and orphaned earth the skies

Lie veiled and bleak, the sun's departure mourning,

And gusty winds with sudden anger rise,

Of pending storms the grim and  chilly warning...

Fatigue, decline, and - over all - the worn

And wasting spirit's smile, doomed soon to vanish,

That lights a sufferer's face and that is born

Of modesty, the godlike pride of anguish.

1830

Fedor Tutchev

*  *  *

There is a spell in autumn early,

One all too brief, of an enchantment rare:

The nights are radiant and pearly,

The days, pellucid, crystal-clear.

Where played the sickle and fell the corn, a mellow,

A warm and breathless stillness reigns supreme;

Spanning the brown and idle furrow,

A dainty thread of cobweb gleams.

The birds have flown, we hear no more their clamour,

But winter's angry winds not soon will start to blow -

Upon the empty fields there pours the azure glow

Of skies that have not lost the warmth of summer.

1857

Federico Garcia Lorca

Today is a day for poetry, not some rhymed stuff for some family occasion such as Christmas or B'Day, but real poetry which is born in a talented heart to penetrate other sensitive hearts...

The Ballad of the Salt-Water

The sea smiles far-off.

Spume-teeth,

sky-lips.

‘What do you sell, troubled child,

child with naked breasts?’

‘Sir, I sell

salt-waters of the sea.’

‘What do you carry, dark child,

mingled with your blood?’

‘Sir, I carry

salt-waters of the sea.’

‘These tears of brine

where do they come from, mother?’

‘Sir, I cry

salt-waters of the sea.’

‘Heart, this deep bitterness,

where does it rise from?’

‘So bitter, the salt-waters

of the sea!’

The sea smiles far-off.

Spume-teeth.

Sky-lips.

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Ay, the pain it costs me

to love you as I love you!

For love of you, the air, it hurts,

and my heart,

and my hat, they hurt me.

Who would buy it from me,

this ribbon I am holding,

and this sadness of cotton,

white, for making handkerchiefs with?

Ay, the pain it costs me

to love you as I love you!