Sometimes, the only one listening and singing are little children. -Shiv
The girl was singing in a church choir,
About the weary abroad, far away,
About the ships in the sea, so dire,
And those who'd forgotten their happy day.
So sweet was her voice flying up into highness
With shimmering beam on her shoulder of white,
And every one listened watching from darkness
The way the white garment was singing in light.
And every one thought that the joy was there,
That the ships were all in a quiet bay,
And the weary people abroad, full of care,
Were now all blessed with a happy day.
The voice was sweet, and the beam was shining,
And only up there at the royal rack
A child, conversant with secret, was crying
That nobody, really, would ever come back.
August, 1905
- Aleksandr Blok
Translated by Alec Vagapov
Inspired by this poem:
Choir of the Lawn
- Shivpreet Singh
The robins are back,
hopping like errant punctuation
across the notebook of the yard.
Children spill from minivans
wearing light like backpacks.
The sprinklers tick in staccato,
reciting the day’s first instructions
to blades of grass rehearsing stillness.
On my porch, I peel an orange,
its zest stinging the morning,
while a squirrel holds a seed
as if weighing an oath.
A neighbor lifts his cup in salute,
elbow deep in lavender and leash.
Everything glows
as if the sky just cleared its throat.
Only later,
under the fig tree’s dappled hush,
a split-open blossom
murmurs
no bees came this year.
Singing oneness!
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