In The Middle Of Summer by Alexander Shurbanov

even the river stands still
The fiery rose–
a crisp cutout in the quiet air–
looks like a drawing.
The pears–
drops of golden sap
under the boughs’ green overhang–
as though they will never fall.
And my heart–
joyful and calm
like the midday sun–
far from rising
or setting down.
The honey on the lips–
still glowing
in the middle of the road–
a brief taste
of immortality.

translated by Ludmilla G. Popova-Wightman

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