Elizabeth Bishop (Элизабет Бишоп)
Chemin De Fer
Alone on the railroad track I walked with pounding heart. The ties were too close together or maybe too far apart. The scenery was impoverished: scrub-pine and oak; beyond its mingled gray-green foliage I saw the little pond where the dirty old hermit lives, lie like an old tear holding onto its injuries lucidly year after year. The hermit shot off his shot-gun and the tree by his cabin shook. Over the pond went a ripple The pet hen went chook-chook. ”Love should be put into action!” screamed the old hermit. Across the pond an echo tried and tried to confirm it.
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