<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426678" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Folk Tune</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up,<br>it's more like high time for the lad's last nap.<br>And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the best<br>drives a steamroller across his chest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the words won't rise either like that rod<br>or like logs to rejoin their old grove's sweet rot,<br>and, like eggs in the frying pan, the face <br>spills its eyes all over the pillowcase.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Are you warm tonight under those six veils<br>in that basin of yours whose strung bottom wails;<br>where like fish that gasp at the foreign blue<br>my raw lip was catching what then was you?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would have hare's ears sewn to my bald head,<br>in thick woods for your sake I'd gulp drops of lead,<br>and from black gnarled snags in the oil-smooth pond<br>I'd bob up to your face as some Tirpitz won't.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But it's not on the cards or the waiter's tray,<br>and it pains to say where one's hair turns gray.<br>There are more blue veins than the blood to swell<br>their dried web, let alone some remote brain cell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We are parting for good, my friend, that's that.<br>Draw an empty circle on your yellow pad.<br>This will be me: no insides in thrall.<br>Stare at it a while, then erase the scrawl.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Joseph+Brodsky">Joseph Brodsky</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426678" data-title="Folk Tune de Joseph Brodsky" data-description="It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up, it's more like high time for the lad's last nap. And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the best drives a steamroller across his chest. And the words won't rise either like that rod or like logs to..."></div> </div> </div>

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