11 To Tatiana
Show me the art of February winds --
White fury rushing blindly into black.
Make one left moment fall
In the abyss,
And years crossed over climb
Up to the edge.
Teach me those movements on the broken ice --
Your breaking tenderness
Of tranquil steel.
Tell me again with February pride:
'Don’t do it,
It’s not proper for a queen.'
Grant me the vision -- ice will thaw,
No -- bleed --
That rare, wrong glimmer in your frozen eyes.
Make me the sister of the height and wind --
The bride forever --
Black worn under white.
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