Time flows through me like water through a sponge.
It oozes away, leaving a murky sediment
of half-forgotten feelings
and half-imagined events.
And endless waiting.
Sometimes it seems that I have been waiting ever since I was born.
Waiting
for something to happen
and for everything to change.
How?
If I knew, the wait would be over.
I was so happy that evening,
but it passed by and left nothing.
In the mornings
I cannot remember my dreams.
Tell me a kind fairy tale:
I will listen with open-mouthed absorbtion;
I will look at you with shining eyes;
I will laugh and cry in all the right places –
I will be the best listener in the world.
Tell me a kind fairy tale, please!
The endless depth of the waking sky
flattens when branches traverse it in black.
You can switch from the boundless depth
to delineated elegance
and back.
From beauty to beauty.
The morning world is open
and you can enter it.
And you can go out
and give presents to others
and receive gifts
and be happy.
Calligraphy of naked branches
against the urban avalanches
is crisp and clear, like the voices
of morning birds. There are no choices.
Breathe in the cold that stops your breath,
that fills your lungs – your shibboleth
and drown, happy, in the verse
of crystal clear universe.
It is not in lost and found.
Maybe on the underground
I forgot it on the train?
Maybe cold autumnal rain
washed it off – down the drain?
Maybe, in the daily grind,
it slipped out of my mind
and, with finished magazine,
I just dropped it in the bin?
Or, in fact, it wasn’t binned –
maybe restless urban wind
blew it off with fallen leaves
to be caught among the eaves
in the gutters up above?
Where is my epic love?
You imbibe of your desperate loves to get over the voids,
forming rickety bridges and narrow paths in the clover.
He is happy and chirpy, who covers, sidesteps and avoids,
but the longer you do it the heavier is the hangover.
