Tuesday, March 26, 2019

Begin afresh, afresh, afresh...


The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Philip Larkin,
June 1967


Thursday, March 07, 2019

про родину/ about motherland



«Когда государство начинает убивать людей, оно всегда называет себя родиной».
(Дюрренматт «Ромул Великий»)



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