Книга только для ознакомления
.
Ill
The plains are long as thought, my fathers,
as memory, where the traveler
sees at the edge of the sky
the dead children walking,
and closer, as the sky recedes,
the children accept his name,
in the terrible dust
becoming, as the sky recedes,
the skins of himself
he abandoned in wandering.
Or this is the way it always happens,
the story they tell us of blindness
in the country of leopards
when our eyes say NO MORE,
SAY WE ARE DONE WITH LOOKING,
WITH THE CHILDREN,
WITH SKINS AND WITH DUST AND WITH MEMORY.
But the time of the Staff was no time,
as Old Man told him it would be,
knowing, reading the hawk's heart,
reading the switch of the wind,
knowing the Staff was calling,
changing the country,
changing the heart and the way
the memory wanders the heart.
And the moons crossed
at impossible angle,
Solinari to rest in the source of the sun,
Lunitari to rest in the dragons.
So Riverwind knew
when the leopard approached him,
skin full of light, of dark,
of darkness boiling in light,
bone and muscle giving way
in imagined tunnels
of plains and movement.
Something behind him
sang with the leopard,
his left eye shining
straight through the leopard
to the edge of the world,
and behind him something saying
LIE DOWN, GIVE THIS AWAY AT ONCE,
GIVE THIS AWAY BEFORE IT BEGINS,
OUR SON, OUR YOUNG ONE,
FOR YOU CAN LEARN NOTHING OF THIS MYSTERY,
NOTHING FROM THIS MYSTERY
BUT DRY GRASS BUT DARK BUT YEARNING
BUT THE GRAVES OF YOUR CHILDHOOD
OPEN TO MOONLIGHT,
AND THE DEAD
THE UNSPEAKING DEAD YOU SEE
WHERE THE SKY MEETS THE PLAINS
WILL BE ALWAYS YOUR OWN, APPROACHING
|
