Poem: Mute Tombstone
A familiar wave plays on the radio...
Static interferes with the melody.
It's fine,
You don't mind listening to the white noise.
You walk along the tiles cracked from eternal sleep.
Across from you a vineyard sheltered by agrofabric.
It grew up with you, but it seems neither of you truly grew.
So much time — wasted.
In the cold nothing will grow well even when wrapped.
Wake up.
Today, you won't have enough for the seventh flower.
It's impossible to gather the entirepalette of feelings in just six colors.
You had never approached this door before.
Apartment Nº13
You had never opened it.
You never wanted to knock.
You know, even the expected happens unexpectedly.
It always happens unexpectedly.
knock-knock.
A sound quieter than a dust speck falling into an ear, but it will blast your sensitive eardrums.
It will shatter your familiar way of life.
knock-knock
You open it.
We never have any other choice.
You always thought there was nothing valuable behind this oak door.
But you were wrong.
Always wrong.
Time has covered the oak canvas with a web of cracks.
A thick, dusty veil has gathered in the hinges.
The lock is jammed.
An icy carpet blocks the way inside.
Some scars can never be stitched shut.
You know, people acquire precious colors at the very last moment.
Life gains value only after death.
You'd better not follow this cruel rule of fate.
Do you want to fall asleep in a hearse?
Long rides always had a way of calming you.
Remember how you hid behind the giant fir tree...
You always thought its emerald crown pierced the clouds.
Remember the lush lilac bush with its pungent scent.
No one remembered its name,
but it was the garden's most vibrant decoration.
Stay close to it.
For it's all you have left of that world.
Stay close to it,in its silent caress, before it fades.
For later, you will never see it again.
That's all that remains of the past in the fairy tale.
Memory...
Others won't see the life that its roots channeled.
Others won't be blinded by its beauty.
No matter how dazzling it was,it's useless to compete with the relentless sun.
It burned to ashes.
So, remember.
Stop, stand by it one last time.
Prolong its life within yourself — with your memory.
Your memory is a mute tombstone to him
You are cold, but you will absorb the last drop of blood into your black earth.
Its ashes will flow through your veins.
The only thing we can do is remember.
Our pain is a funeral wreath to him.
Wake up.
The radio has faded, yielding to a quiet ripple.
This is bad,
You are not ready to listen to the silence.
We will have to open many more doors.
It languidly awaits your visit.
And when you meet it — it will have the most dear eyes.
Be ready.
Test their strength.
And I will take the plate of pancakes with me for now.
The crows are waiting for their treat.
