THE PENDULUM'S TIRED...
by Volodymyr Svidzinsky, 1932
The pendulum's tired.
Summer, winter --
Rock, rock that fat silence!
The pendulum wheezes like the wounded.
But why didn't I hear these groans,
When my love was by my side?
At times she would lie down
And then I would read her a story.
Time doesn't stand still.
The books we read have yellowed,
Their corners turn black with mildew,
The spider attempts to ensnare these old things in his web --
Day, night --
Every moment is counted.
The pendulum grows hoarse.