The Twisted Tapers
From the Russian of Larrovitch
THE tapers cast their shadows everywhere,
Across her breast, her eyes, her mouth, her hair.
We are alone; each taper bends and drips
While I pour kisses on her still, soft lips.
The shadows flicker on the walls and floor,
Faint sounds of voices reach me past the door.
The tapers bend and drip, the voices go,
The hours pass deliberate and slow.
She was a lady of a high-born race . . .
The tapers bend and drip . . . I kiss her face,
Ah! now to kneel within this heavy gloom.
Here buried living in miladi’s tomb.