Poems
My consciousness trembles,
The ground shakes.
In the distance, I hear a shimmer.
The night is stuffy.
Summer,
August, the sea.
Everything inside me is falling apart.
In the joy lies the sorrow.
I am tired of the rage,
The stamping of the feet of those who tread on the heads of the thirsty.
I am weary of despair and thundering heaviness,
The misunderstandings and the human boredom.
I am weary of the sorrow in the eyes of those who have not dared.
It is agony to part.
I long to walk down these autumnal lanes,
On the forgotten maple leaves.
I want to walk with something childlike in my soul, And hold my beautiful city in my hands,
And look up at the blue sky.
My ideas are buzzing around me,
As if snakes were spewing from my head.
Am I Medusa or Medea,
Or a cat in a stone sack?
The love that hides behind pain cannot escape.
Blessed is he who helps.
My medieval windows,
My medieval roofs,
And the threads of time,
And the transitions in the air.
Unfamiliar and familiar places.
We have been there before and we will be there Again.
Fables and all the answers we have been looking for Somewhere,
But here it is - love.
Once again I have lost you,
And under a heap of rags
There is but a shred of the ceiling
Of countless stars in the sky.
I do not hear your voice
And my heart is barely beating,
I struggled,
But the door closed again.
I fell into my gaping hole that hurt.
I suffered, now I'll freeze.
Unbearable, sweet-beautiful sadness.
I will not come back now.
Oh my beloved birches,
Oh frost.
The crazy snouts,
And a bouquet of roses.
Life takes you in different directions.
I sit in the car behind the black, crow-tinted windows.
Threads of time.
You can not wait for a chess move
And look angrily from under your eyebrows.
How could you not get on a steamer with two decks?
Intelligent nobility,
I'll throw the whistle in your face.
Oh, my fertile land of many children.
The house is destroyed and the porch is on fire.
I will no longer call love by its name.
This is but a state in which joy is out of hand,
And this is the very thing
Which the Creator has formed.
What language best speaks of love?
The words
Like birds,
Their song and their chatter.
My burden, my jumble
Of the unspoken and unplayed
Truth is laid upon my eyes.
The poem helps to get rid of the pain.
The sound of rain
Brings peace.
What realm are we in?
Who knows?
Who cares?
I care.
I dare.
Your way of life,
My peace of mind,
Sharp as a knife
Your word in the night.
Memories of a silent euphoria,
Perfume of musk and magnolia,
The smile of a delicate animal.
A feast that never was.