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Poem

Dahlia Ravikovitch

THREE OR FOUR CYCLAMEN

   
Three or four white cyclamen       
and I've got another extra-leafy plant               
that will not stop climbing toward the ceiling           
and I've got troves of treasure
and I've got a little secret, nothing bad,           
that flows in the veins of my hand
and colors my blood a glowing red.              
You've got plenty of bills on your mind.   
You're not thinking about me, not talking,  
up there with all that highfalutin stuff                
you're hovering                           
like a delicate mist that consorts with the clouds             
and sprayeth upon them the pearly dust of dawn.
I always knew you would treat me this way.
This is just a little story                       
with no hidden meaning.         
But that mountain descending right into the sea   
straight down into clear turquoise waters       
has forgotten all about you.
That mountain is mine, all mine,   
not yours.

THREE OR FOUR CYCLAMEN

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THREE OR FOUR CYCLAMEN

   
Three or four white cyclamen       
and I've got another extra-leafy plant               
that will not stop climbing toward the ceiling           
and I've got troves of treasure
and I've got a little secret, nothing bad,           
that flows in the veins of my hand
and colors my blood a glowing red.              
You've got plenty of bills on your mind.   
You're not thinking about me, not talking,  
up there with all that highfalutin stuff                
you're hovering                           
like a delicate mist that consorts with the clouds             
and sprayeth upon them the pearly dust of dawn.
I always knew you would treat me this way.
This is just a little story                       
with no hidden meaning.         
But that mountain descending right into the sea   
straight down into clear turquoise waters       
has forgotten all about you.
That mountain is mine, all mine,   
not yours.

THREE OR FOUR CYCLAMEN

   
Three or four white cyclamen       
and I've got another extra-leafy plant               
that will not stop climbing toward the ceiling           
and I've got troves of treasure
and I've got a little secret, nothing bad,           
that flows in the veins of my hand
and colors my blood a glowing red.              
You've got plenty of bills on your mind.   
You're not thinking about me, not talking,  
up there with all that highfalutin stuff                
you're hovering                           
like a delicate mist that consorts with the clouds             
and sprayeth upon them the pearly dust of dawn.
I always knew you would treat me this way.
This is just a little story                       
with no hidden meaning.         
But that mountain descending right into the sea   
straight down into clear turquoise waters       
has forgotten all about you.
That mountain is mine, all mine,   
not yours.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère