Our past has became the future for my lonely unlived years.
I am going, stunned by the foreboding of my heart, by the inertia
of fruitless life. Shadows of memories fall on my sick memory,
sinless and alienated. Vacation of oblivion begins in such a way.
Trees stand no one knows why, eyes haven’t noticed them before,
and the wind and the rain remind a deck, sailors; the fate and
the sea – all is united, and here and there I don’t feel soil under
my feet. And now winter storms black color and throws a white
flag, the war is over, doubts and difficulties as well, I continue
to live in the deaf hopeless world, and I surrender at victor’s
mercy that stepped on the land of my frightened soul.
And wait, and know that a new day will betray and surprise until a tear like
a ladybug crawls through the streets of your eyelashes like a turtle , you will
gain wings, it will fly up, and in the reflection of heaven harden in the emptiness
of painted summer like an apprehension, nonexistence, uprising of forgotten
sensations. Unquestioning love and truth and when hung
on bare wires winds, they are solving mysteries of bloodless evenings,
and of memory, and of silence with a foreboding, with a pen of destiny.
Unhurried reality comes with a walk of ant thoughts, a shameless
charwoman, fell behind the times not by the heart failure
but by the curiously of green, living over the autumn abyss. To fall and
to come back forced by the dream, to snuggle to the verbal angels,
and come and assign flowers to touch-me-nots of dreams, and life, that
doesn’t look like life, to see and agree to mercy.
Later, recently, early, forgotten. You put your ear to the sea
sink and start listening to the beating of her heart, wait,
hold on, where are you, aren’t you besides, why are you so, my heart,
scaring me? Don’t force, if you don’t calm down, I will get you out of
the chest and, while I will be listening to the heart of my beloved,
you won’t return you home. I am leaving my memory forever, why do I need
this confusion of hopes and forebodings, overheard by the sky and peeped
by my memories. When the phone dials my number, I will not answer,
I will pretend not to hear, because it’s me, who is calling myself, I’d like
to remind myself `about you, as if you accidentally dialed the number
of your memory, and here you are in my hands. Wait, and I’ll answer, and this signal –
a connecting thread between what has already been and what will never happen.
Nevertheless it was, and now it is rolling inside me like a fireball through
my veins and burns with a fiery passion of the accomplished, of what happened,
by the unaffordable luxury of possession in the sunken consciousness
where there is neither the time nor the present, where there is no me, there is only
the image of loss, a fixed shadow of the past, entangled in the web of
You see , dear, I don’t know why I’m tired to love , maybe
summer has come early and spring in its bloom like a snowstorm
swept over the head with a grayness of wasted events. I’m trying to
love by memory, call habits like a kindness, those that in the last
life stood on the sand like fabulous castles. Never mind that the wave
of time washed them away – I bewitched them , and they are still as strong as
Antonov apples in the garden that don’t fall to the ground in September.
Only autumn with its own longing puts the hands apart for separation, it’s
so familiar in October on the way to the parking lot , to the hibernating.
Unforgivably quiet. Time goes on tiptoes for you, and makes a noise,
and puffs up, and flies galloping for me. You’re still young, evening
doesn’t touch your gentle eyes with its sleepy hand. In the distant land,
where a lonely dream lives easily, you don’t exist, and a tired heart
is wearing an inconspicuous dress of the humdrum life and doesn’t know
why you are going on a rope into the impenetrable wilderness
over the abyss of childhood – just stumble, fall, perhaps nameless rivers
will conversely flow. But beaches are standing and bearing a guard duty,
and no one will escape from their gazes, don’t be afraid, they don’t exist,
it’s just a fate, here and there, and everywhere, and
only it measures movements of the course, each step, yours and mine, one
side of life, and humility doesn’t exist, there is an inertia of time, lasting race
of impartial minutes, and wheels are spinning, and creaking and regret
about it, and going along the stage of mysterious years. Here is the moon
with an antique smile in gilt and bronze froze on the satin night height of the sky
of our hopes, stars are nearby, the Milky Way is covered with smoke, this exhibition
is called life, there even a happiness can to be found as opportunity offers.
Have a walk, look around, you can become a showpiece, but better the audience,
and indeed, it’s up to you.