At the puppet theater of the sunrise on the stage of life the sun comes out,
and until the curtain of the sunset, like a guillotine, falls on the earth,
the sun plays its major role. Next day the performance is repeated.
The sun by the roots of rays, by the nervous endings of love, grows
in the cold heart of the earth and with the coming of spring goes out
into the light and heats the human sea of windy desires with the warmness
of its hopes. Love – it’s a joy of despair, it’s a sin, inherited from Adam and Eve
and made people mortal. Love – it’s an escape from something
measured and ordinary, it’s the hell and the heaven, which, holding their
hands, incinerate your soul by the insane fiery desire,
and you cannot resist. Love begins in such a way.
no, rather, like a wise cat, sleeps, waiting when its hostess life
will refuse to grazing and push it out into the street of desires,
where everyone tries to rise above the encounter of sights, and
the prey of its passions into the abode of the fire beginnings, as
into the cage with a tiger, will be thrown into the heart, belonging to it
since the very first greedy meeting, which is not on the map of winters,
and the soul by the volcano of frantic excitements before the separation
will be ruthlessly incinerated. What of the fact that life is bigger and longer
than love, because it has its own planking road, where on the cart of boring
days it shakes because of featureless monotony, and everyone is waiting for
a chance not only to jump off, but to run away into the world, where the time
clicks, like a squirrel, pine nuts of the fate.
Love has no future, only the present, and the time, like honey
in the combs, leaks nowhere. Where’s your guardian angel, why you
aren’t protected from despair and madness, from the words, rushing forward,
from the fawning and bossy lips, from the rainbow of eyes, from the blind rain
of tears, covering the mind. How to keep the storm, how to save
love? In no way. And the angel is powerless here.