STOLEN THOUGHTS
(“shoplift a thought or two…”)
Stony leaves on a glassy floor.
Everything’s equal – onion and oak…
The chance disappears in the blood
and piercing of mind slowly begins.
Your thought’s like a scorpion, rip’ning in frost,
it painfully peels the sensitive layers…
* * *
Color, touch… Your magnetic flame,
it sounds like a violin, played for the blind
and I’m dying in the chaos of your lips…
Well, senses are nothing, but blinking wires,
Your fingerprints – in the dirt of my soul,
your maple words make me eternal,
your apricot smiles plead me “be!..”
Life’s a tin roof.
* * *
I
The soil is grassless, and sandy, and dust,
sharp leaves of the weeds are like pointed arrows.
The birds are silent and you think they’re tryin’
to reach the stars. Uneven rows
of corn make you feel like a stranger.
A wingless wind is fighting the sun
and pleading for rain. You feel that your skin
Is piece of this Earth, burdened with dirt…
II
Bells have a gentle diving sound:
it’s like a polished mirror singing
some mystic hymns… or crystal choir –
reciting poems of unspoken words…
When bells are ringing, I think
of winter’s resurrection, and sunrise
dying in the threads of rain.
III
I’m often reproached for not laughing here,
for not being sad when everyone in the world is drunk,
for my tears and not sharing everyone’s joy.
It’s superstitious and it will rot some day,
only the light in the windows will last…
Come to this light,
enter, and realize that everyone is there.
And you’ll become yourself
and everyone will become yourself.
IV
My life is an eroded path,
it spins ‘round razor blades and feathers.
Sometimes I learn the art of sorrow,
sometimes – enjoy the waltz of peace.