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Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas. Half the catalogue of ships is mine: that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line, that once rose, out of Hellas.
To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes – Foam of the gods on the heads of kings – Where do you sail? What would the things of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen?
The sea, or Homer – all moves by love’s glow. Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent, and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent, and, surging, roars against my pillow.
Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
Read poems about / on: sea, rose
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