No reward, no throne.
Neither the place of honor
Neither made out of the gold, nor made out of thorns.
I do not need a crown...
Defiant to admire me but pitiful,
to follow me with fear.
To devour me lives full of hunger
Souls of unfortunate vagabonds. All different ones
There are a lot of half-empty barrels.
They stink like mold
And the wine turns darker,
like blood on a piece of cotton.
And when leaking starts in the water spout
The drops are racing one another.
And their feet give them away, badly.
Numb or dead below the waist.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
There are more blood in the fields
crushed in the dust of the land
and in the roots of many young sprouts.
It is born with the sun
the spirit of antiquity and eternal existence
long time ago that I used to construct.
In the fields the wind still flows
and carries the voice
where it is heard more.
In the woods near the hummock
irrelevant and empty,
where streams continue to roar...
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
In a spiral of confusion
We're spinning
more and more losing ground.
Trapped between
birth and death
we bear
our thoughts well.
We bow down humbly
To night light
brighter than the sun.
We are afraid of
subconscious awakening
and foggy trails
of mind.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
I do not believe in picturesque letters
on the parchment.
In counting, polling and marching.
I do not believe in mosaics and stained glass
or in various rainbows after the storm and rain.
I do not even believe in the songs of tired musicians,
in the waves on the docks
and in imaginary looks of melancholic cony-catchers.
I only believe in pore on stone,
centuries-old testimony
and forgiveness after cognition.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
I'm looking for an excuse
to hide under the sun
and protect myself
from cold birch trees of May.
I am looking to replace
a piece of bread
with the entire surface
of uncultivated fertile soil.
Seeking a drop of water on a leaf
burned by the same sun,
while not catching the reflection
of my image above the well.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
From stars to make you a hat, to keep you safe.
No one to see you under it...
Out of clouds I’ll create a velvet,
to sew you a vest, when it blows and stings.
To embroider it with a silver thread.
Washed with the lake water.
And with fairy’s tears
hidden in the dark forest…
The song I'll use to sing you
a silver chain,
and the fields will make you a bed.
From dry plums a balm,
to put on your wet lips,
and from the root of the wild lily,
to collect water,
to soothe your thirsty soul.
I will splice me, from your hair,
like a cord threads of silk.
As in my vest
they once used to be.
I'll take your hand,
and take you to the past, far away.
To see all of them who are there,
So that you know there is still someone.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
Simple lines of star constellations
Tire my night vision
While the sounds of lyre
still disrupt the silence
of the sleepy dark valleys.
Under the tree top there is outspread
memory of the clumps of the furious
and of the beaten paths
that ingrown in weeds.
Sprinkled with dust
collected from dried out wells
Hides the shadow of
Polished silent sky.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
Sequence of images on the other side of the curtain,
In a semi-dark gloomy room,
Is nothing but a foggy trail of memory.
The past is still calling, sometimes. Maybe often…
We usually encounter in the absurd. The feeling is melancholic.
I tell her: I am the one you have kept from the past days.
Maybe I'm a little older, more experienced, worse...
When you leave the apartment, do not close the window.
I have to know,
when the curtain flutters in the wind that hides you,
That is nothing but the proof
That I am still here,
when the storm strikes.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
When you fall asleep, dream of ships;
they always return…
So does my soul return on the morn
having navigated the “northern sea route”.
When you fall asleep, dream of ships,
because they rid you of the great anger;
with it they smash the ice, and sailing on
they leave it in the depths of the Mariana,
where the worlds of darkness touch…
When you fall asleep don’t worry where I am;
I am already making your coffee,
a refreshment from the voyage,
and you will show me the silk nightgown
that smells of cocoons, old mulberry trees
and the spirits of the eastern sun.
When you fall asleep always dream of ships.
They return…
If once they do not, don’t worry,
I will wait for you at the bottom of the ocean.
To be the nymph’s servant and carry her lantern
where the worlds of darkness touch…
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
I won’t know that I’m gone,
one day, when I am no longer here.
But even then while you sleep
I’ll place my head behind your lap, near,
and whisper what you already know –
“You mean the world to me, my dear.”
I won’t know that I no longer exist
when the sun hides behind the shade,
when the day carries dreams, joy, happiness,
along with some rainy cloud,… afraid.
You know that it was all for us, here,
and you keep it in your heart, my dear.
I won’t see that teary eye of yours
but I’ll know when the wind brings the news,
when the audience leaves, when you are alone
how to lay my breath on your lips and kiss you tear.
It’s not eternity but only life,
so don’t be ever sad, my dear.
to my wife
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 7:39 AM UTC