Lyric poetry

When the soul, not knowing the luck

* * *

When the soul, not knowing the luck, 
indicates the path by its presence, 
You think it’s fooling you 
and wants to confuse and even to cheat. 

Sometimes it just disappears for a long time 
And sews doubts with a needle in the stack of days, 
Naive, because it doesn’t know the life, 
And we all talk and talk about it. 

Because of the insatiable heap of events 
It’s hard to see a face of the pensive soul, 
Or maybe, all this a lie, and on a whim 
We touch in vain the emptiness of heaven. 

Then tell me, what pains and moans so much… 
And doesn’t allow to sleep, to doze off in silence, 
And drives somewhere over the night hills, 
And wakes up like the blind moon in the window.


I will not tell you

* * *

I will not tell you, how the snow was circling, 
how drunk the sadness was, how in the dream 
mysteriously and strangely into the inaccessible
for the heart distances after the wind the countries

flew, collecting ashes at the dawn. I will not tell 
you, how waves were laughing in the ocean,
how under the sky, abandoned and early, clouds
died in December, how the moon ran to the date,
to light its love in advance and remind the stars
about itself.


Since yesterday the canvas of the dawn has been standing on the easel

* * * 

Since yesterday 
the canvas of the dawn 
has been standing on the easel. 
You don’t believe that life – 
It’s a fiction, a case, 
a sunken star in the sky. 
It’s a painting, cloud of the delight, 
It’s a series of troubles and hopes.

Winter in the vineyard and the deafening happiness

* * *

Winter in the vineyard and the deafening happiness

from the impoverished clouds, from clouds, pitted by

the storm. And the darkness – only decoration on the

background of hungry life where nobody goes mad

because of the fatherland. Deserted area, parking,

pastures, bunkhouses, a chain of enchanted roads,

where fear makes jogging. Along the uncharted fate

grapes are going, don’t try to change my mind, don’t

do it, and what of it for you.


Black falcons of night

* * *

Black falcons of night, 
lonely, proud, 
under the high rainfalls 
fly over the city 
and like a little flock 
over the belated foliage, 
over the scarlet sunsets
and over the tired life.

On the light path of unknown roads

* * * 


On the light path of unknown roads, not portending 
any grief for the world, along the silence, which

the shore for our, do you hear, for our sins, dissociated

itself from all the insults by the wall, touching the strands

of solar eclipses, like in front of God, only in front of

you my crazy genius bows down its head.Read into the

waiting of minutes, into that inquisitorial pack, which

will be lovingly lied not at this – at the future time.

The heart will play with laughter of the sly rain on

a holiday time.Don’t forget, don’t forget me, and leaving

for a moment, as forever, read a prayer, we are in this

life, as if in a boat of Noah. Well, what name to give

to what is happening daily, oh, if I were asked, I would

have given – Moses.


City was like a tireless garden

* * *

City was like a tireless garden,
greedy, nervous, wild, unfamiliar, 
city grew up and became a tiny hell,
like apple blossoms surrounded by winters.

City is a fortress of immodest ideas,
can’t be taken by attack, can’t be got around,
city is a brain of voluminous streets,
don’t  knock at the door, you may just enter.

City asks autumn for mercy
by the hotspots of anxious lights,
city is leaving in a festive dress
to the outskirts of poor gray days. 

Present a word for the way
on the steps of line’s passing years,
and suddenly tenderness will come to the aid
and fragile white light will touch the routine.

Clouds. Who called you?

* * *

Clouds. Who called you? Why from the uninvited distant 
places you came to disturb the high sky? After all,  
our life is powdered with the sadness of  lived days and 
sleepless nights for the human sins. Return back to 
the unsaid paradise, where not only by bread alone, but 
by the everlasting memory of quiet, forgotten melodies, 
like a house with roses, spring water enthusiastic hearing 
is filled, where a sunbeam rings with a golden coin and 
leads, leads into the mirror of sailing somewhere snows, 
like swan feathers. At this time, unnoticed by all, 
in the major garden two people appear and in the happy 
flourishing delirious touch the apple.