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