Одинокий Дуб Николай Заболоцкий
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The Lonely Oak Nikolay Zabolotsky
Such shoddy soil here: far too tangled Is this oak too, its boughs devoid of splendor; And all that’s left on them are sundry rags, which dangle, Protruding meekly, rustling deafly now and then.
And yet those gnarled joints are unfurled so far, Paralyzed in mid-twist, that it seems one thump— And it will ring its bell of glory, And amber will start pouring from the trunk.
Take that oak in: standing there calm and solemn Amid its lifeless, barren plains, its home. Who says that in that field it’s not a warrior? It is a warrior in the field, even as one, alone. |
Lonely Oak
This poem was published in the Hysteria Issue of Spolia (http://www.spoliamag.com/)