your life you want to be look like others, thirsting, passionate,
who took the geographical location as absolute, as the endless
point of happiness on the way of frustration, a bookplate of human
senses, having recognized the defeat of tin soldiers fleeing from
the ship of weekdays, poisoned with a consciousness of innocence
to the events of the unbridled era.
out of stellar honeycombs of the night dew, life appealed to us
on You by Chagall’s dream, by Klimt’s gold. And Babylon of love was
falling at your feet, a funny Paris, and it was our mystery, and the
rain on the buttons of homeless roofs was playing a melody of
longing, and this casual talk was overheard by my temples, and the bell
was sounding inside me at the concert hall of silence where I was hiding
from the spring, and a candle of the moon was melting, and srearine
was dripping with a white tear, and the dawn was growing with the Eiffel
Tower, and Van Gogh was drawing the morning not with a mad brush,
but with a chalk.
painfully close in spirit and doubts to me, I submit your claims, as they do
not burn in the fire. Human nature has a vicious face of passions, you lived
with them, you cherished them, then scattered on the ground but seedings
are gathered by people, Well, and how we can convict them now if blood
doesn’t flow through the veins of past life, when in a cherished secret
darkness, in a perishable pawn shop, their daily lives are resting like
receipts, a different way is prepared for them, we can’t live another’s fates,
when obelisks of hope found their peace in the damp earth. You can’t take
advantage of it, can’t secure a grip on love, when our children grow up,
when now not we are responsible for them, but powerful feelings of dream
with which they’re on “you”.
under the weight of time, on the window-sill of dreams it brought up cactuses
of memories and settled Bonaparte’s nightmare of gutless history into tired
hearts. Each life has its own island, its own expulsion into the sorrow, ruthless
apostle of destiny, night patrol of dumb questions, cities of memories, where
the shadows of years call us for a visit at the stations before and after, where
the years of silence blossom. Paris, you breathe this air by memory, you turn
people’s hearts into ashes again and again, and the blood runs cold in Seine.
of destiny is ready to sail, and it has been sailing for a long time already.
There is no France any more, no Paris, and your disfigured spirit is shouting
out of the chest as a seagull: I will not see you any more! – but the stone
city is silent. Gauguin is tired, he can hear speechless sounds of stars, oh,
your coast, Tahiti, tortures of dying painting. And a mix of colors will come
true and it will be for sure, but don’t believe the painters, and a paintbrush,
what is a paintbrush, just Devil secretly sleeps in it, and after awaking, he
Having wasted pathetic hopes you come back to Paris, and like the naked
River Seine, lie under the lived sky. Nobody’s station, nobody’s museum,
paintings, people who are more agile, not all are based in d’Orsay, and indeed,
eternity has it’s own sleepy sight at the crazy tribe of the killed creative
soldiers who perceived unearthly time, its obsession flattery, a swarm of
disappointments and triumphs. Well, how are you there? And we receive
the answer – but all of us are here.