***
I’ve got the idea.
It’s February.
My world is deadly ill
With February.
Nature feavers
About its sins,
And like notes on the lines
Sparrows froze
On the wires, rising feathers.
Heavy frosting wisperes
From the whity clouds
Of February scraps…
A tear curdled
As a mute steel in the eyes of Moscow.
I’ve got the idea.
It’s February.
Yes, it is… 13.11.06
***
Conifers were trying to reach the clouds,
Keeling over into the water
Of those lakes. Young Spring
Was sligtly disturbing the nature.
“Before” was left in the past, and “after”
I dropped in the Lethe waters.
But there was no Summer.
Neither before nor after.
No Spring… No Summer… 13.11.06
***
Pine trees next to the road
Supported the sky
And the horizont line
Was full of my tears
Which were saying good-byes to you
When I was parting with the Summer
And hot and tender light
And the green of your eyes… 13.11.06
***
And then the fall wispered with her yellow skirts,
So tired, so old, so dirt,
Drifted away leaving a foggy shadow,
Covering with it a lifeless meadow.
She never askes for an invitation,
Dragging on me old greyish blanket of frustration,
Paying with a gift card for short days of light
And banishing the warmth of your hands in the middle night. 13.11.06
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