Subject: Imelda

From: "erny courtenay" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 3 Apr 2007 09:24:44 +0300

БЮЛ МЮДНЕК ЯОЮЛ ? Б ЯБЪГХ Я МНБШЛХ ГЮЙНМЮЛХ,ЛШ НАЪГЮМШ ДЮРЭ БЮЛ ОПЮБН НРОХЯЮРЭ НР ПЮЯЯШКЙХ,ЛНФЕРЕ ЯДЕКЮРЭ ЩРН ГДЕЯЭ: 

http://www.radiodeejay.hr/forum/lang/inexed.htm 

It is as though I were at a second threshold.
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
The paths of childhood.
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
And so I gaze avidly
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Out of the road into a way across
By bloody pool≈rattling, gasping his last.
XVII. Greenland
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,