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.