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
© 1998, Dahlia Ravikovitch
From: Half an Hour Before the Monsoon
Publisher: Even Choshen,
From: Half an Hour Before the Monsoon
Publisher: Even Choshen,
Poems
Poems of Dahlia Ravikovitch
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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.
From: Half an Hour Before the Monsoon
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.
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