Through The Keyhole Of Time - Poem by Oskar Hansen
Through The Keyhole of Time
The houses were made of old timber, like a Russian village
on the endless steppe - maybe I had Dr Zhivago on my mind.
But where was Lara? I was in Russia once thought it sinister,
roads without light and black limousines gliding slowly by.
Lived in a house that had rough planks for floors and no
indoor loo, luckily it was summer that year.
At a café, the woman who ran it looked as a woman I loved,
and never lost my longing for. I visited the place, there were
accordion music and much gayety, but the woman I loved
looked at me with dislike when prancing around with her two
lovers who were junior officers in the red army and went to
the gym every day lifting dumbbells; impotent rage, thought
of assassinating them. She, the woman I loved, had not aged
I was now forty years older than her.
When the music stopped she dismissed her lovers I asked her
why she had left, she said it was because I was boring and had
no sense of fun. When the music began, to prove her wrong,
I danced to show her how much fun I was capable of, but I fell
on the floor and for once people laughed.
Knew I had failed her and could not understand what more
I could do to make her love me. But I had been blind, outside
a woman smiled, a warm African smile, it took me forty years
before I met her again and mourn the lost years without her.
Comments about Through The Keyhole Of Time by Oskar Hansen
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe