Last night,  
when  I opened my window,
a small piece of the moon
fell into my glass ...

The moon became my sun.
The stars became my clouds.
The night became my day.
And you?
You became my abyss...

Two red cherries
under the twinkle
of a fading star,
They whisper together...*

*,, She was wearing
a pocket watch,
long chain
made of stars,
and the clock
made of the moon.

Alas, he never came,
But she is still up there
in the diamond sky,
Waiting... ,,

Drown my dreams
in October winds,
Drown my memories
in leaves of fire,
Drown my melodies
in sunset's regret

Keep me from dreaming,
Keep me from remembering,
Keep me from singing

So I too can fall in oblivion with you

Running fast in the middle of the corn,
the little maid held a red maple leaf
as she began to sing:
,, For golden Autumn I do not morn,
but for the blackberries that perished of grief,,

Her hair of marigold in the wind swung
and her cheeks were bright and rosy
when she once again in her silvery voice sung :
,, Oh October, month of gold,
how beautiful sights you give me to see ,,

Alas, the sun soon started to set behind the hill
and made her smile to slowly fade
when, from the woodland, the wind gave her a chill:
,, Little maid, leave October's canvas of art
and go home before nightfall freezes your fragile little heart  ,,

Mmmmmm...
At dusk when the
moonflowers show their
faces to the silver stars.

Mmmmmm...
At dawn when the
monflowers hide their
faces from the golden sun.

Mmmmmm...
You will find me
under the shadow of the willows,
dreaming of him as he recites
verses of poetry to me.

Mmmmmm....

Once, I can't remember,
I was innocent but so full of pain
While one midsummer's eve
I did met the fair  Rose-red.

My old mother did not fancy,
she sobbed and wept all night long,
but my passion continued to spark
as I constantly whispered ,, Rose-red,,

So my home of wood I kindly fled,
no longer a roof to shelter my poor head,
but gladly I spent my youthful days
with the cheerful Rose-red.

In the morning,  song of nightingale
made her charming face to glow
while her strawberry lips sang
,, My love, see how so blissful is your Rose-red ,,

But alas, the cry of the violin was heard too soon,
as I peacefully am now sinking before the early tide
And from the Heavenly kingdom i do beseech
-Mercy, oh sweet mercy- for my Rose-red.

Now that the sun has set behind the far pines,
and only the stars accompany my deep mourning,
there is no one else by my side
to help me bury Rose-red.

My long black cloak was envied by the night
which sent me a gentle autumn breeze,
as I pressed my soiled hands upon the wooden coffin
and only whispered ,, Oh, my poor Rose-red ,,

And tonight within this cursed hour,
I too shall be sleeping above the cold stone,
for there is no tender lullaby than the roses that stirred
around the grave of my dearest Rose-red...

On a crystal breeze,
across the forest lake about to freeze,
On silver bells someone plays my melody
Hear it and again you shall remember me
along with memories forgotten long ago
and a song you once used to know
as warm as a dying ember
glowing on a night of December ...

One is the bluebird
whose wings carried my burdens
heavier than mountains

One is the bluebird
who flew across starry skies
and silvery snow

One is the bluebird
whose eyes sincere and solemn
lovingly gazed into mine

Alas, it never cut my guilt
for letting it go to start anew

So, one day maybe
I, again, will hear its voice that chirps and comforts,
and to push me onward... To where I belong ...

Please come to me,
maiden, so honorably fair
For you are the
most beautiful rose
in my forest

Please come to me,
maiden,  so honorably fair
For you shall grow in my garden
but with no sunlight
nor spring water

Please come to me,
maiden, so honorably fair
For your tears will soon be forgotten
when you submit to the earth underneath

How I adore the
poetic verses of the moon.
Not the sun,
Not the stars,
but only my moon.

From a balcony of clouds
above me, the moon whispers
and throws a star.
Ah, but the moon shines as twice
as bright as the star it throws.

I would fly to heaven
just to be with my moon,
Where the silver beams
would color my hair white.

Oh, what a poem would I write
if I could make the moon
Mine, all mine ...

Little red poppies,
all lined up by the wooden tracks

Little red poppies,
all stirred up by the passing Soviet train

Little red poppies,
all picked up by the children who carelessly played

All the white
roses sparkled
under the sun
but among them
there was a flower
different
from the rest.
The black rose.
Not only by the
colour of
it's petals, but
also by it's
aspirations.
Growing towards
the light
of heaven even
though it
knew that it was
planted in
the soil of hell

Yesterday I
opened my old
poetry book, when
I found a pressed
autumn leaf.
Its fragrance took
me back in time,
back in that cold rainy day
Then I was so young
and beautiful
when it got caught in
my hair by the
mischievous wind,
bathed in sky's tears.
But now it's dried
And it will never
be as it was before.
Just like me...

The last firebird flied
over her as she stood
on the last crumbling
mountain.
Prickley pine trees
shivering above the dew,
the first breath of the
winter in her soul was
icing through the flowers.
She fleed the Golden-emerald
city, heart broken by the
gong of war.
Sinking her nails deep into
the ground.
Sheding tears of a dragon
from the crystal eyes
of the universe.
Falling down
her porcelain face.
A work of art.
Her lips red,to seem like
cherries in the spring.
Casting a glance at the pale moon
while the wild wind was
howling to the north.
Ruler of the skies
as the morning stars sang together,
looking different today.
In the shadows of her lace fan,
the silky blossom on the
kimono dress.
Embroided with the silver thread
of moonlight, encrusted with
the diamonds of night.
The great ocean waves can't destroy
her purple throne.
Although left all alone, she will
never surrendor.
The obediance will suffocate
from her light, rising like the sun
after the dusk once again.
Because she is... the Empress

Old souls are the most beautiful things inside of us.
They are a thousand of years old.
We can't paint them on canvas.
We can't write them in a poem.
And we can't play them on the piano.

White roses
began to grow
on the places
where you
left thorns
Only the red
rose on my
heart never
healed.
Drops of blood
are still dripping
from it
while her dried
petals start to fall...

Upon a cold
winter's night, on
the snowy path they
wandered.
Deep in the forbidden forest.
The wise old owl that lived
in the tall oak was watching
as he sat on a branch.
Old pine,remain hollow.
He hooted to the
indifferent wind: Who?Who?
But it did not reply,
only whistling was heard
while the pinecones shivered.
The first was dressed in silver,
and her sister dressed in gold.
He stared into the moon,
seeking the truth.
So he discovered the stars
twinkling down upon them,
through the pine needles.
Brown wings of once lost light,
wisdom spoken by the night's silence.
And into the darkness they went,
The wise and the beautiful...

Little nightingale,
wings of white and gold.
Little nightingale,
singing gay and bold.
Fly away, far from your iron cage.
Fly away, up in the North sky.
One day you will come back,
singing your last requiem to me,
For I shall be there to hear no more.
   You are very brave,
   and you are very free,
So do not fall into sorrow,
do not fall into eternal repose.
But until then...
  - Sing, oh sing,
My sweetest nightingale
high above my broken baroque grave

White orchid, my beautiful white orchid,
where have you innocently bloomed?

   ,, In the garden of dreams, but you picked
me up and gave me to a blue lady ,,

White orchid, my beautiful white orchid,
why are you now all yellow and drooped?

   **,, Because you forgot me when you saw
two white orchids only blooming in her eyes ,,

Perhaps it was the melody
of winter's eternal repose
and her ****** lips
shamed the odious rose
But when approached by Death,
the girl sobbed and sobbed underneath the thorns
until she released  her last breath
Still Death could only hear wind chimes
as he lingered upon the frozen breeze
in those forgotten nighttimes

It seemed like Autumn was just passing by
with red maple leaves in the air that began to cry
and the wind who played a serenade in the willow tree
Oh, how fast do those moments flee
Now little snowflakes upon me are about to fall
So tiny, so silvery, so small
Autumn may be brief, but when it's over
the melancholy arrives in a marigold color
and softly whispers in my ear:

**,, Autumn will live,
Autumn will last,
Even when it's now gone
you will see it riding through the dawn,,

Sending vines of thorns
to grow upon high stone walls.

  *- I will touch every star in the sky...