The sea is deprived of fiction. The sea
is the most earthly of all the earthly
wonders. The sea has a heavy breathing.
The sea – apotheosis of solitude. Its
heart is like a large jellyfish. How to
understand its vastness and crannies,
its secret pain. Only the cloud in the
sky in the summer heat looks like
its soul. The sea is defenseless and
always in sight. The sea shakes the
horizon in the hammock of its palms.
Life warms in its depths, sensual and
sublime, short-sighted and shy, like
a thought, soaring over the vastness
of the sea bottom. The salty truth
of the sea lives in the August Moon
glare of the autumn leaf fall.
* * *
Like a fluent line,
with high cheekbones and strong,
as on the garden beds of spring,
I run away in absentia
as a not memorized syllable
from the captured hand.
Everything found and lost -
leave for my friends.
With our confused friendship,
independent from words,
I part unpretentiously,
without many troubles.
Autumn tree in such a way
through the ice drift of foliage
bends the farewell winds
to the dale of winter omens
in the sacred evenings,
where there is absence of us.
* * *
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, 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
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
I live with all prepared and accomplished, stand and bear a hump
of history like the wings of angels, huddled into the large clump
of the unlived events, I'm not alone; and the fiction, and the truth -
everything mixed up, intertwined, only your faith accepts all
and protects from the truth but not of yours, not of your people. And then -
as it will turn out, it doesn’t work, alas, and down the stairs, not
into the abyss, and not into the hell, but from the heaven, down
the ladder of Jacob to the earth, for the long, long awaited and brief
moment, not I am with soul, but my soul is with me, and it returned
alone, but I will not know about it at once; why to worry about what
hasn’t happen, before the time, before the pointed date.
We want to rush so much, to come on time God knows where,
no one knows why. At the address of your fate the city is registered,
the towns, and the countries live in the neighborhood with you
in the high-rise building of bustle, sometimes they knock at the door,
sometimes they invite you, no, it’s not a friendship, it’s just a custom
among humans. Those who elicited more desires, rush around the world,
and after a lot of fun, they settle down at another areas, not so boring
with constancy. You can read your sleep by eyes, but we read not
a schedule of autumn rains, winters and springs, escaped into summer,
but the raids of nomadic nights that are hiding in the basements of
wounded morning from solar passions, broken not one ruthless
heart. When we say, "it's high time", it’s not difficult to guess that
it’s necessary to start the journey, or probably not.
The heart, laughing in all the languages of the world, doesn’t
want to keep silence, and is knocking, and beating like a fish
on the ice, and is angry, and is jumping on one place like a red
frog on the hot featherbed of earthly premonitions, shackled
by the chain of blind loneliness. It is waiting for the execution
of the sentence and dreams to hear before Adam’s silence
in its original form, when there is nearby neither a hammer
of heartbeats nor an anvil of the past years.
People, bring me into the light, let me see
at least with one eye unpredictable and desperate,
full of fears and doubts life, and I will return,
I will definitely be back and will resume the arrows
of the clock, of days and nights under the steadfast gaze
of the heart torments. Don’t ask, whose pain is beating
around the bush, teasing and bullying and finding me
for itself. No, it hurts not inside me, just maddened crowds
of working memories are flowing along the veins of my memory
like a bloody rebellion, and I am looking forward to when they
come to take me, because in our history
it had been more than once.
Having accustomed, you leaned to the wall once again. All depends
on the first movement of hands, on the cramp of clutching fingers.
You will rise by touching, tapping with the pulsating
blood of veins, in the stuck temples, along the solid memory
of the rock. Blind awakening of instinct and fear to live,
like everyone else, in the horizontal emptiness of times,
leads upstairs, only the coldness shakes an oval of the back
with goose bumps, no one around, otherwise you would
become proud and disappear till the pointed time. Face
to the rock what can you see? Vastness that stretched along
the sea. Why such a hurry to die, when the breathe is the only
one insurance, you're doomed to hang on the rock,
on the memory of minutes, resurrected over the loneliness,
what a happiness, there is no choice, no descent, only an eager
to spread hands, like wings, and to fly. Where to? To the hard bed
of the rock, and to sleep there dead because of tiredness.
How to say my eyes to understand, there is no truth in what was seen,
and so many paints are mixed, and black and white colors in their sleepless
expression disturb the heart. When in the envelope of a long night with
a post stamp of the moon a letter comes at the address your soul and its shadow
breaks your dream, don’t take offense at this time and try to understand a sense
of frightened premonitions, not everyone is given a chance to approach, not
to move away from the innermost being of troubles, which caught the truth
surprisingly by the deserted crowd under the sky of herd wanderings of clouds
over the heads of their idols. Irreparable sorrow, like a bowl of the cried tears,
lies by the lakes in the world on the rejoicing earth, almost forgotten,
but I won’t tell by whom.
* * *
We forgive our love and by the timid breathing we return not
the time, but the cold blood, and the sleepless heart, a sentinel
of our troubles, like an obedient traveler, worshiping the sun,
and the paper dawn, as once love, burns for a moment,
and a bouquet, that is called spring, in front of our eyes
fades, I don’t know, why the fear of silence returns and
the lonely echo of silence stuns not the night, but hungry
dreams of that forgotten country, where our days live in a hurry,
and in vain the lights, which lit the Bengali stars with glory,
through the eternity of despair say into my eyes – you're tired,
have a rest.
* * *
Having lost on the map of events, the sunbeam pointed to my house.
It was floating down the river, on a whim, fascinating the dream of silence. My
memory, I'm your long-liver from the unknown side for me. Around the corner
of your memories there is an inconspicuous house with three windows. In the stove
the flame of lived confessions over the logs is silently telling the fortunes.
Distances, only distances we are destined to live on the earth.
New Year and the happiness of heavenly apples, doll’s happiness, but for
everybody, and a pie, cut into pieces, my childish unique
laughter. The eternal blind imitation, the time is aping on the shoulder,
outside the window frost is cracking with frustration and grandmother is
sighing in the dream. And not heeding the voice of reason, the town is tormented
with anxiety, the moon looks creepy like a wild cat, if not the province, but Rome,
and I, unnoticed and the first, will leave this sleepy region. How strong nerves
both of us have, I'm leaving, and you, welcome me. Behind the back there are dusty roads,
there can’t be others at all, it is destined to gather dust in poverty in the urban dirty den.
How to learn the omens of fate, windy island of happiness. If you write and no answer
- then, you were taken away the right for love, and your voice, a hermit,
let it not poison the soul and not drink, because tomorrow is Monday,
then, again everything is vice versa. Your name will be used by the timid one,
give me a chance, I beg you, it says. How all this is awkward. I burn with offences myself.
“Stumps” of the war
In the late 40s in the streets there were a lot of war veterans-invalids -
with disfigured faces, blind, without hands and legs, but with orders and
medals on their chests. Those, whose injuries were particularly severe,
moved on makeshift wheelchair carts. Invalids sang in carriages, railway
stations, markets and other places of gathering people, begging, drinking ...
In 1949, before the celebration of the 70th anniversary of Stalin, it was
decided to push mutilated soldiers, victorious soldiers of Zhukov Army,
to the most remote and inaccessible parts of the country, mostly to abandoned
monasteries so that persons with disabilities couldn’t spoil with their
ugliness flourishing cities of the socialist fatherland. They were gathered
for one night by special outfits of police and security - loaded into the vans
and taken to the "boarding houses of the closed type with a special regime."
One of such houses was located on the island of Valaam (the northern part
of Lake Ladoga), in the former monastic buildings. About the horrific details
of life of the inhabitants of this postwar reservation there is not much
evidence, but they do exist, no matter how hard "good faith" historians and
publicists tried to hide the facts of unprecedented crimes of the Soviet power
in relation to its own defenders. On Valaam, according to various sources,
were kept up to a thousand of mutilated soldiers, living for a meager allowance,
for who the act of "caring and compassion" turned into a camp hell. Those who
had no arms or legs, they were called Stalin’s "samovars", were hung for the
whole day on the branches of trees in baskets or grids. Sometimes they were
forgotten to be taken off ... Dead heroes were buried, like criminals -
nameless, under the sign with a serial number.
Demonic time. Messengers of happiness with unpretentious
truth invade into the life of politically well-fed, half-mendicant
and half-rich motherland, separated from the common sense, from
the foundations of being. How many wars, pogroms and famines should
we still overcome. Endless chorus of exhausted, dead,
humiliated by the historical passion of miseries is singing silent songs
over the country in the looking glass of heaven. For whom?
Is it really given to hear them? Sensitive hearing – it’s an anxiety of
the heart, the relentless memory of epochs, it is the pain that lives
at the native threshold and which we don’t allow to come into our house.
Chaotically and irreconcilably quiet. Last year's snow seemed a mane,
but no one came to collect it. They thought, Saturday. They were mistaken.
It’s time to wear a talliet. Fear seems an inconspicuous person for
tourists. All in their hands, and even the fairy-tales of unadjusted to
the spiritual life guides. It’s hard to see the rivers, flowing with milk and honey.
And the Glory Cloud that brought people out of Egypt, reminds
a cotton candy, I don’t remember, who of townspeople said.
* * *
Before the beginning of beginnings clumsy Virgil
to all poets, born in vain,
God knows why bequeathed hopeless
sadness of his genial creations.
* * *
Silence like a silence,
silent, forgotten, waiting for the call,
it is, like a bent willow,
that leaned over the water
in its thoughtful greatness,
and voices, like childish birds
with incredible simplicity
rankle it - what's wrong with you?
* * *
that all this is a lie,
that this is very strange,
but I've seen myself,
like early morning
the crows pecked
eyes of the dew.
* * *
The security service is poor,
dead parrot lives in the cage,
I drink with a smile to the bottom
a spit-covered paradise of my routine.
Bad weather is outside the window long,
But I am still led somewhere.
From the glass with a broken bottom
emptiness flows over the edge.
* * *
Unrecognized being. The road like a whip.
Those who can’t be returned – can’t hear the last rites.
Life is a waiting room, people are crowded.
The star fell like an early spring, and here
you are waiting for departure to unknown area,
by patience, experience yourself by patience.
The wind is flying along the music book
and birds are chirping like little children.
At all the stops there are farewell sights,
we are flying for a reward like a ladybug.
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