Kozarev, you are like a summer's day:
Bright and brilliant; exotic and vibrant.
Smart and gallant; generous and elegant.
Our story is flickering like these smooth bushes
of May; ah, but why I saw thee not today,
I knew not why.
How could I dream of thee not?
Ah, my dreams are bad.
Nature hath probably cursed whom;
whenever they enter into my mind at night.
I hate their promises, and their tongues-
they are forever and ever slandering
my faith-by chanting about thy presence,
their mouths are fraught with lies;
leaning to me like those filthy, ungodly,
savagery; if I was to catch thee not-
why should have they insisted so?
I am jealous of those hidden faces, unknown
Behind thy walls, impatient to grasp thee
with a bite of lustful words, swearing at
thy benevolence, for I canst be more so,
and more generous than thou hath thought.
My blood boileth with sickly temperaments-
whenever I am bound to one thinking
Of thy prudence, and tactfulness
Towards the glamor of insipid dames.
My soul becomes problematic, and forested
in severed distraction and dismay
by averted lips of choking and gasping all day!
Ah, yes, suffrage shall be beneath my eyes,
until no more breath is perhaps to remain,
and only wreaths of crossness
Frantically treading about the paths
of my gouty lungs; wreaking away bit by bit
their brevity, washing off every virulent trace
of devotional identity, and gravity.
This is harassing me-the knowledge of
being unable to see thee once more,
this evening, perhaps-
and I am twisting and glaring at
these painful thoughts like a dream.
And you, you are-as the butterflies start to file
Out of their realms and into our world
You are just like their epic poems;
fruitful and delicious indeed-
but humble as those thorns,
smiling at the sun though wounded;
and laughing by the smallest of whose delight.
Kozarev, you are my man; and as you dance along
the gravel paths by handsome moonlight,
you are even more glittering than which;
and with thy stateliness
You will but own my heart once more,
lifting it up from every dim deprecation
and fruitless laudation it hath hitherto ventured into.
And I love thee and might just love thee more every day;
more than every promise my poems can say,
I adore thee and cannot live without thee
Swift and marvelous is my love,
blessed and ingenious as it shall ever be.
I love thee, Kozarev.
Obicham te.