In the hush of shadows,
the pond tries to remember
who it was mirroring.
Like the white and red blooms,
we live for a moment of illumination—
then return
to where light cannot follow.
— Jujube

In the hush of shadows,
the pond tries to remember
who it was mirroring.
Like the white and red blooms,
we live for a moment of illumination—
then return
to where light cannot follow.
— Jujube

You move through a whisper,
loosening from its own name.
Birds rise. Grass bends.
The sun hesitates.
We are not what we once were—
the field knows this.
It gives you back to the wind,
without ceremony.
— Jujube

In distant lands, on hill and plain,
thus do I dream, when nights are long, —
and memory gives back again
the whisper of that long-lost song.
— V. Nabokov

You can almost hear it —
autumn’s last gasp
a pomegranate split open
grapes hang low drowsy
a pear half-turned to gold
held by the brush
silently resists decay
— jujube

The window holds the breath of rain.
I sink into the blueness of sleep.
Dream and daylight braid,
as the shadows of the leaves
sway.

I have no need, for my nocturnal travels,
of ships, I have no need of trains.
The moon’s above the checkerboard-like garden.
The window’s open. I am set.
— V. Nabokov

Wine hums, lanterns flicker.
Moon sneers, time falls into dust.
Who stitches sorrow in the dimming light,
While night is still young.

Not quite a bed, not quite a bench.
Wallpaper: a grim yellow.
A pair of chairs. A squinty looking-glass.
We enter — my shadow and I.
— V. Nabokov

Tipsy antiquity, barely holds
the coolness of the gleam.
Time lingers,
soft as the evening’s breath.

in that townlet in the towers’ shadow
the sound of life was reckless clatter,
the mixture of tipsy antiquity
and of the present liveliness
were healthful for me: my soul’s ready
to relish everything beneath the moon,
the ancient and the new.
— V. Nabokov
