To the Fountain Of the Palace Of the Bakchisarai ~ by Aleksandr Pushkin

To the Fountain Of the Palace Of the Bakchisarai ~ by Aleksandr Pushkin

The stream of love, the stream alive,
I brought to thee two roses, as a present.
I like the ceaseless murmur thy,
And lyric tears, still and pleasant.

Thy silver dust, that hangs in air,
Drops onto me like dew of morning,
Oh, go, go, dear flowing,
Sing, sing to me thy saga fair.

The stream of love, the stream of sadness!
And I have asked thy marble's white:
I've read the praise to lands of aliens,
But Mary was not there implied.

The pale star of the harem, dreary!
Are you forgotten in a past?
Or whether Zarema and Mary
Are only happy dreams for us?

And only dreamed imagination
Had drowned in the empty dark
Its flitting visions' pale reflections,
The soul fancy's easy mark?

pushkin-bio
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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