Seven Strophes by Joseph Brodsky
I was but what you'd brush with your palm, what your leaning brow would hunch to in evening's raven-black hush.
I was but what your gaze in that dark could distinguish: a dim shape to begin with, later - features, a face.
It was you, on my right, on my left, with your heated sighs, who molded my helix whispering at my side.
It was you by that black window's trembling tulle pattern who laid in my raw cavern a voice calling you back.
I was practically blind. You, appearing, then hiding, gave me my sight and heightened it. Thus some leave behind
a trace. Thus they make worlds. Thus, having done so, at random wastefully they abandon their work to its whirls.
Thus, prey to speeds of light, heat, cold, or darkness, a sphere in space without markers spins and spins.
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