I miss you sadly and so much!
And even if I just don’t know you,
Or maybe I won’t nay find you
And in no case and never lose you.

I miss the words. I miss so much
The words, that never will be spoken,
The dreams, that knotted not on me.
They’ll be fulfilled not us, but someone.

I miss the hands. I miss so much!
They would be able to hug sweetly.
I miss the hair, careless a bit,
And lips… Yes, lips! I miss them really!

I miss their touching, hot and sultry,
Which can just never been delivered.
But even as I never know you,
I’ll love you truly with a quiver.

I’ve known you a long time,
Probably the eviternity.
Now I’m as if in a stupid film,
Trying to roll up the infinity.

Your grimace is clear-cut.
Your taunts are plain.
Your eyes are as if pictured.
You’re near, and they’re far-away.

Your hair is at my finger-tips.
It’s rigid and rough as strings.
Touch them by hand and here's the space.
Your hair’s reminds stings.

Your silence is my kaiken -
A short sword and a precise beat.
You despised me by your muteness.
How familiar is your cheat!

Your firmly closed lips
Are like a mask of tragic jesters.
Do you hear trumpets are playing afar?
A strange love is being buried there.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Hasn’t even go to bed.
It’s past midnight and all over again.
Her bed’s still fully made.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Forgot what sleep is.
She spent herself but stably accepted
Her Destiny’s painful decrees.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Wants simply and plainly to be.
She stopped laughing long ago.
She rarer wants to speak.

A woman, who’s really tired
Of blaming herself for breathe,
A woman, who’s still feeling,
Has simply the right to live!

so the sky is pink, the window is open.



listen to the crow call, or is it a rook?



we have the memo.



‘it is cosy here this morning’, crooned the bear.

All songs are sad, the poems aren’t better.
Maybe I should remake them all?
Re-write, re-concoct, re-live, re-slobbered!
Maybe they should be re-baked in whole?

So that instead of the night there’s the sun!
And in place of the blizzard there’s summer.
And no sadness! Out with the blues!
No more tears! No ill lucks and dramas!

And what about love? We’ll keep it on!
But let’s go and change my loving colors!
Instead of the rain and sleepless nights,
We’d paint white camomiles and flashy covers.

The wind would always be tail-on,
And love would live into old life.
Cinnamon, almond, vanilla aromas…
Am I right? Is that the smell of happy life?

I’ll write such “love story”, where they both
Love each other and were both faithful.
The sun shines brightly, birds sing clearly,
And they both live till their death in full.

I’ll finish writing this loving poem
And put it on the back shelf grandly.
I can be inaccurate, but I don’t like it.
And in my poems I won’t lie fully!

All songs are sad, the poems aren’t better.
I won’t remake them all in no way.
I love and I write my fanciful life!
And I will do it further alway!

Hold off on your verdict for her now.
Put by your own condemnations.
You never lived behind the wall
In the grip of grievous self-abnegations.

In the morning, while opening eyes,
She destroys and despises herself in whole!
She hates herself! She abhors the world,
Which she has made by herself alone.

She wants everything would disappeared,
Evaporated as though it's never been
So that there's nothing left around,
Nothing reminded of her as she's been.

And she would start with a blank sheet.
Forgiven, redeemed and clearly blameless,
Hold off on your verdict for her now,
For her, who leans over ruins.