Birdish (English)

Droplets of rain fall into the snow.
What now?
The scathing laugh of a distant spring
It is time for thaw.
The ones that wait for us swirl in fogs.
Welcome.
All of our deeds brood after them
In congregations.

Tonight the snow will fall again,
Life is but a knitting department.
Step after step, as if stitch after stitch,
Our multicolored karmas we knit.
Farewell, our dear fogs. Not eternally, we hope.
Please come back, do not freeze: this evening, snow will fall.

But the breathing of spring will stay as our own.
Here's the needle, the string, now the ornament's known.
To be next to your loved ones with each incarnation,
Do not hold any soul within your unforgivingness.

It's snowy and cold.
Fingers pricked all over.
Needle sparks through and through.
So what's new?

The pole vibrates, the net tatters,
we see somebody's face grin.
Beer, dancing girls, wonderful things
The little ball falls through the ring.

Just like that, we will return many times.
Through the net of years we will soar.
Causing vibrations, a ludicrous tatter,
we'll fall once again to floor.

We are picked up by somebody's arms,
and again - we will spring up and fly.
Jumps through new lives are a cure for boredom,
athletic and active is our paradise.

We're subject to mockery if we compare lives.
But what if? But what if we did?
Whoever spoke first about water through fingers?
The little ball falls through the ring.

We, the wild grasses of the prairies
and the wild sands of the shores,
knew this state from its birth.
Our coyotes and chipmunks,
our seagulls and our ducks
Their years cannot be counted.

But hear the hooves and thunder,
the scathing descants of bullets
and the myriad sounds of love:
all that ever fell onto these grasses,
all that was ever silenced by these sands.

We don't mind: let there be a city.
Skyscrapers, lights, cars.
We are adorned on lawns,
potted carefully on beaches.
But, of course, this is nonsense.
Only we, like always, are tranquil.
Know, we grow with our spikes towards the sun
and blow our grains of sand into dunes.
And when everything calms down,
as silent as night, we will enter Chicago.
Very slowly, as if in a slumber,
we will sprout through all of its roads,
we'll push over the very last steeple

There's no anger, there is no regret,
and there definitely isn't revenge.
It is simply that this is our job
preservation

Do not say goodbye, say I'll see you soon.
The spider trapped in amber is practically immortal.
And we - we contain much more life than that spider.
And we know that there, behind the burning horizon
We are promised new meetings in the post-amber world.
So let us wink with a smile: "Later! Bye!"

We were lucky in life: we listened to the lapping of lakes,
Took in the odors of our loved ones, responded to intoxicated words, watched, as people wandered through cities.
And accepted, without sensation,
The light fluffs of years and the mounds of age.
But all that flies over our heads, will come to fall at our feet.

Our bodies-in golden embroidered sarcophaguses,
in peaceful graveyards, in mountain crevices,
torn up in wars,
they, just like our souls, were born for happiness
to meet over and over again with our loved ones
inside of the amber and out.

Movement on roads and through hallways.
Relaxation at parties, by screens
Sometimes a glimpse of the sea, a flirt, a temple.
From these flickering ripples, my eyes form a dark gleam.
Good to see you! Gotta run! Foolish words.
As if hassle will save the world.

With stumps of words, with carved art
We converse virtually -
Ritually, concealing our names.
Chat rooms, forums, tribes

Anti-aging pills: let's become immortal!
Cataclysms: let's fall into graves!
Gigas, nanos, a thousand dimensions
Enough!

When you finish this poem- stop.
Go out on the street, look around.
What if there, waiting for the warmth of your palms,
Is a winter wind or a summer bug?

When you finish, I beg you: stop.
Stand in the midst of the room, look around.
Your second half hangs over a novel.
Your child has glued its eyes to a screen.
Drop all that, find the Ancient Forest
Where pythons hang from the skies.
They'll suffocate the speed, squeezing it in their muscles.
They'll convert the bytes into live colors and sounds.
Then you'll warm up to the wind, the bug, and yourself.
And maybe you'll stop and read this stupid verse.

What, you don't like trips on foot
Or the thickets of forests and souls?
Like raisins in a bun, you are mixed into this rhythm? Then hurry.
Morning coffee -
And to the office.

It snows.
The road is slippery and dark.
And so
I steer down it in my steel compartment.
I hurry
to leave from this ambivalent life,
My soul
escapes from me to the equator.
And so it flew on heavy
winds:
and drifted down as silent snow
in the mountains.

To be silent,
omitting light and heat and presence.
Throughout the night
to catch the smallest luminescence.
An odd one,
was turned to ice by this blizzard,
In spring
I'll trickle off the wheel and seat, a puddle.
Oh how vulnerable is this melted
water!
But I was with you, as always,
throughout the winter.

(I joked.)
Dissected to snowflakes by the blizzard.
(Divulged.)
Became a shield to mountain peaks.
The creeks.
Try to find me in a spring flood.
Don't speak.
Grass will not grow through the thick snow.
From year to year, from year to year
this cycle is alive.
Till summer something, once again,
will not survive.

Don't go after the definite, go after the subtle
the subtle will become the most definite.
Do not wait for faithfulness but for trust:
the trusted will become the most faithful.

But the subtle can rip with such ease!
(Better, then, when there's nothing to rip?)
But the trust is so simple to deceive!
(Better, then when there's no one to trust?)

For us, everything is fine only while it's fine.
Anything more serious- we reach for the ones we love.
Or else, become mentally stratified,
as each layer we try to console.

Wearily, we will flow down the roads in a craze parade
(by the way, is it true that gays are not born from their dads?)
We do not need any rights or aid.
Just do not soil our brains with your fads.

The certain loses its exquisiteness.
Loyalty is too restricting for love.
And love is simply a trained wolf cub:
it obliges, but towards the forest it gawks.

For the subtle is cramped in the definite.
Trust is but a salted sea,
Faithfulness is too, only bland.
A sea on the monitor screen.

Parrot: in the vivid feathers the rays will spark.
Owl: to hear a live voice in the dark.
Bullfinch: so that in winter something will still fly.
Condor: to observe oneself from a height.
Raven: a strong memory of lives, deaths, and ages.
Hummingbird: the trembling of loved ones, lured to us, as if to flowers.

In us are the flashes of swifts,
the solidity of penguins.
But with years, from us begins to drift
the scarlet integral of a flamingo.

Why paint one's feathers with eaten shrimp?
Seem colorful, while being monochrome?
While flying, wound a clear sky with fiery streaks?
Are they czars in clownery or clowns at a throne?

Earnest is the blackness of a raven
Earnest is the floridness of a parrot.
But this absurd shade
in myself I do not understand.
The rest jackpot, bingo!
Why does this one glint and shout?
And so I shoot the flamingo.
And so the bird fades out.

She cried in the midst of summer.
You didn't need to bumblebee's intrusion,
or his sun-filled secrets,
or his low-flying fusion.
And from bud onto bud, it had flown
just a tiny golden saxophone.

She cried at night, in autumn,
so much that the downpour seemed arid.
A fragile train at a crevice,
it crumbled apart and it scattered
across the nearby fields and yards
A tambourine's echo to the drenched worlds.

She cried on a winter morning.
Salt of tears glided down as snow.
Froze the hands, the eyes, and the tusks.
Moon and sun, both in the sky showed.
But I heard it: behind the snow mound,
of coming blizzards whistled the oboe's sound.

She cried in the spring as well.
I remember an evening so bright, so gigantic.
Maybe it's better to get buried again
in affairs, chirrups, and the flowers on branches?
It all pulses, just like a trombone:
the lighthouses, the anemone, the voices tones.

Go on, catch all the seasons, enjoy life as it goes!
Tell me, why are you crying, my love?

Under the prickly rondo of blind blizzards
Under the mighty, juggling tornado
Under the whistle of words and the murmur of thoughts,
I walk.

Under the solo of the nighttime landscapes
Under the lightest breeze of female fingers
Under the one who teaches grass to sing,
I live.

Under the ones dried out by autumn winds
But that still come to sense the loved ones' tears
Ones that keep at the game of life,
I die.

The wings are unseen,
But their flutter is keen,
Like the pulsing of life,
On the winds.

To swim in the secluded northern lakes,
To lay upon a southern beach under a palm with a parrot,
Cascades of music into the canyons escape
Like a woman in the nude, life beckons:
sometimes of Renoir, sometimes of Lautrec
And you are here, right next to me,
for almost a quarter century.

Intoxicated by the western culture-soaked ocean,
to take in a stream with eastern wisdom, like a blessing.
The suites, the operas will suddenly flow off as fogs
in order to exchange their powers with the streams.
Life's call an eagle's flight in a blue hue:
hard to imagine what could be more nude.

And I, I'm happy for all these life-sustaining streams.
For long? For long. Almost a quarter century.

Fortune teller, tell my fortune, speak of money for money.
Reach in and retrieve a miraculous object made by man.
The flames in the fireplace change your predictions,
But your gaze clouds with snow and your answers are vague.

So feel free to burn cards or the foam in the cup,
I will not find the answers in human-made fire.
I walk out of your hut, and the sun tells my fortune.
And it promises light.
Always promises light.

Once, at a symphonic concert,
like a letter in a lost envelope,
a random chord began to fade.
It wavered slightly on a wave
within the music or myself
and then vanished into the air.

Forgive me for this shallow tune:
I craved the girl who played the flute.
Yes, that brunette there, birdish eyes,
When suddenly, behind the walls,
Someone disturbed this divine call
by pressing hard upon the gas.

That hall, its breathing had one source:
The music's breath had it immersed.
But the short path came to an end.
Outside the music, I intrude
I empty out, just like a room
in which someone was declared dead.

The hall was airless, it was blind.
And on the road beyond the walls was I.
An empty mind.

So this is how the autumn starts:
A sudden thought has been cut off
As if the wind, while in a rush,
Crashed with a desert and withered out.

Tiny birds cover the sky in specks
A yellow autumn replaced by a gray
Soon, down a snow-covered winter path,
The chimeras of my mind will drift and pass.

When suddenly, one will glisten like a needle,
Spin with the sharpness of a top,
Will scatter sparks of new ideas,
Of paintings, poems, symphonies, thoughts.

Before it freezes, come and collect
The harvest.