Текст книги "Утро После (СИ)"
Автор книги: Maria Satura
Жанр:
Современная проза
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 4 страниц)
But I breathe with you in my solitude.
Your skin keeps as a secret my derma cells.
The rain falls to puddles, freezing and grey.
A part of you lumps somewhere in my throat.
It's morning. It's painful. I know – you`ll leave.
Locking myself, I let you go.
2015 – 2017
The Draughts
I just cannot love. But I try to get closer to draughts.
I think, they will soothe my wounds, they will still my pain.
But my dignity hurts so does my throat.
Leaving thick, bitter semen, you had been everywhere.
I feel like got tight. There is amber gold in my fingers,
It looks like a yellow sapphire in my heart,
That is craving for praise.
It just cannot burn. But it hurts. And as sharp as a razor,
it cuts my tense nerves via the only your gaze.
I die in your feet, for your sake, in your honor.
The lilies bloom with hot wax between legs.
I really want to be the only your woman.
Like a serpent I'm coiling around your chest.
I really love. We are just gifts for each other.
Thank you for the pain, for the roles in the Theatre of Love.
I'm willing to whine like a wolf
As we still are just nothing.
"All things must pass" – whisper I, not believing.
It is in the blood.
2017
1 2 months
January. Coffee. Snow desert.
I leave apart the crumpled sheets.
You cause me pain. You give me, as a present,
The whirl of doubts and the carnal bliss.
February is sparkling with the sunrays.
Hold on, my Lord, I catch your bitter kiss.
The coffee burns my stomach, fills my nighttime.
In front of you, I bend my broken knees.
March is so dirty. Snow `s muddy brown.
The springs are running. We seem to fall apart.
April. Silence. I will not be crying.
You seem to treat me like a bloody slut.
May rejoices with the bright, warm sunlight.
I am so free. I`m filling with delight.
I start my June with a kiss of tender lover.
He is not like you. I leave behind the past.
July. Again. The nights are rather stuffy.
I open windows. I gaze at my blue veins.
August agonizes roughly.
I miss your kiss, your voice. All this in vain.
September. And you suddenly appear,
You are afraid of autumn and of pain.
You say, you need me. I am moved to tears.
You say I am the woman of your fate.
October tastes like mulled wine, nights are horny.
You are in me like poison, like a knife.
November. Stranger`s lipstick. I` am groaning.
Compelling evidence– you`re not completely mine.
December. Happy New Hysterics...
The walls are stained with dainties,
Washed with blood.
The floor is wet and frighteningly cerise
I wish you happy Christmas.
Love is blind.
I feel like being roughly tortured.
My heart is emptied.
The throat is torn with cry.
You are the winner.
I am completely broken.
I won`t be yours.
You have been never mine.
2015
My comfort
My comfort is of loneliness and sex.
I watch lamplights across the ceiling.
I need no people, need no mess.
I want to listen to my feelings.
I want to cry and to recall
The memories of sweetest moments.
The shades of darkness, lights on walls...
I listen. And the rain is falling.
I seal the envelope to send.
I`m leaving you. So I will forget
All our love. I don`t regret.
I`ll just dissolve in pouring rain.
Forgive me and farewell, my friend.
I`ll sip some cognac, keeping sense of balance.
My house. Dusk. No lights along the street.
I watch the dove, which preens his feathers.
I savor silence. It tastes so bittersweet.
2017
Aftertaste
The autumn and the morning. The undone bed.
I take some coffee beans to ground.
The whirligig of maple leaves is mad.
The rain drips down fragile window glass.
And taste of you is so sweet and sad.
The Autumn. And again I get the creeps.
The thoughts of mine are shattered.
Your love tastes bitter on my lips.
Like black hot tea with saffron.
I welcome this so lonesome autumn
With farewell tenderness, with wet cheeks of mine.
The silence. Peace. The sense of burden.
Goodbye forever. And set at ease your mind!
2017
I fell ill with you
You know, I fell ill with you.
I am running for you with mucus and blood,
With all dreams and all liquids,
With ashes and smoke,
With spirits and tea, like a flood.
You know, you can`t be removed.
You`re rotting in me, spilling poison.
I spit it, as bitter as sooth.
I try to use pain for my poems.
You know, I fell ill with you.
I picked you up as the bug.
I fell ill with you and endure
Doubts, impulses, fights.
You know, I am killed with you.
I am all black, full of salt.
Just one your look makes me drool,
Be abrupt, rebellious, hot.
You know, I am tortured with you,
Tormented, pulled out and crumpled.
You hypnotize and bewitch.
You`re silent. I am crucified.
You drink me like sparkling wine.
I`m cast in pearls. I am spawned...
You are so great, you are smart.
I breathe for your sake, I adore you.
2017
Bitterness
Look into me like into abyss.
Take off me all my masks.
That, what used to be proud matter
I washed away into dust.
I need you. I need you badly!
It`s not the matter of doubt.
You know, what I feel is painful.
I suffocate with my love.
The rainy evening is dusky.
The sky frowns with wadding.
Something in my chest is sinking.
Something in my throat feels rending.
There are no you. There`s no hope.
I`m tired to cry in the night.
You are so unreal for me.
But I happen for you time to time.
«Time to time» sounds like scherzo.
My pain moans in despair.
Unasked but so loud questions
Are drown in the aphonic air.
Fingers mammock the glass.
The red turns into blue.
I need you. I need you so much.
You know, I fell ill with you.
2017
Stop
As though the train shudders with "Stop",
Your shoulders move suddenly back.
Your gaze roams somewhere outdoors.
The street is empty. It hails.
The forest frowns. The moldy grass.
It`s cold outside. The animals hide.
The tired wind slumbers, lying snug in web glass.
That very wind, that played with your light.
I have promised to leave you just never more.
But I`m leaving you every second, each hour.
The light in the windows smoothly dies down.
Brokenly the light in the windows dies down.
The ice covers the flower.
2017
O n the field of battle
We are on the field of battle.
The suspension points drain through gaze.
Each point is a shooting.
Each point is fire.
I scream.
I put the point, marking the end. And again
I put point once more and once more...
And in points I sink...
My pulse beats for you.
My heart keeps the fire.
The blood in my flesh is boiling, spicy like clove.
You are inside of me. You are my burning desire.
Though I will never admit
That this feeling is Love.
And then I am bursting,
Like a bomb, thrown into old castles.
Locking the doors, I`ll finish the eternal game.
I feast my defeat.
And among scarlet poppies,
I`m oozing,
All soaked with the lustful champagne.
2017
The Colo u rs
The flame of my love flows through my veins.
All over the floor I spilled all my chess.
That, what seemed black, a film develops to white.
That, what seemed white, you turn into black.
The morning is burnt with the red colours.
The black of the spades prickles my lungs.
The puppy-dog feet have spattered the diamonds.
I have discarded the ace of hearts.
The flame in my veins is so eternal.
The long sea voyage is promised to ships.
If you only knew what this all is made of!
You`d better not. You aren`t ready for this.
The pain soaks through my strain tensioned nerves.
The blue blood is poorer than the bright-red.
I am no person, who likes to deceive.
But I`ll look joyful, though I`m sad.
All our smiles will take winter frost.
Not to think. Not to know. And not to admit.
This feeling is blowing my brain out like a shot.
We`ve been running away from each other.
And... mixed.
2017
The Wormwood
Don't think of me in the past tense.
I will not leave; I will not pass away.
I`ll take your soul into my cage.
Inside of your heart I`ll find my place.
As if wormwood I`ll sprout among the seedlings.
They are effete; I am the hardened weed.
Whatever happens, it just does not matter.
You burned me hundred times, but did not succeed.
Don't think of me in the past tense,
I am your blood. I am the impulse of your will.
Forgive me. Do not feel offended.
Once you`ll discover pain I have concealed.
2017
The First Snow
There will be no «we» by the winter.
Crazy blood will be appeased.
The corpse of our love will be cut by a locomotive.
So many times, I repeated that this feeling is no love,
So many times, I tried to escape for the sake of some quite.
So many years it has been lasting, it burnt.
My eyes were as heavy as lead with the alcohol tears.
Disinfection of wounds. Doors are bolted from the inside.
Chloroform to forget. And some rage to release.
Not to be reached, I choose to be drowned.
Through the thickness of water, I am petted by the Moon blade.
The face of the Moon doesn't heat. That is no love.
... However, what does not exist alas cannot fade...
2017
The C old Summer
I am grateful to you for this cold summer,
For my chilly hands, dead love, and despite.
Thank you. I am swamped over with the snow,
I`m warped with the sorrow, and I`m fed up with ice.
I am grateful to you for this freedom of choice.
The northern pole. I can choose either direction.
Thank you for free chance to be burnt with passion,
As this lustful night I`ll be losing my voice.
2017
The Hidden Secret
I know one hidden secret:
You have bound somewhere yourself.
Free yourself. You`ll find out the treatment.
Everything that you loved – you`ll forget.
2017
The Conclusion
We are two nobodies, we`ve become long ago.
The lack of affection, of care. The lack of attention.
You are neither a friend nor a foe.
I say – you are just nobody, a kind of reflection.
You are like a blank cartridge of the poke gun.
A shot to a wall. A kiss to the cold muzzle.
The doors are open.
> I`m catching the draughts.
What for do I do it? I`m puzzled.
We are two veins; blue blood runs through us.
Two seats in the audience hall opposite one`s illusions.
When the autumn is gone, the snow will cover our love.
Or it`s better to say "neverlove" as I`ve made the conclusion.
2017
Not a word
The ears – the noise.
The eyes – the tears.
The mouth – the kiss.
The heart – the hurt.
Do you think I hit the brakes?
But I wear nothing under my skirt.
The demon told – "no lingerie".
The thunder beat against the roof.
The ears – the noise. Well, eye to eye.
Who of us was kept aloof?
How did this one forget?
How did the deep wound mend?
Do you think I hit the brakes?
I rip off my cross again!
The heart of ashes. The grave of words.
Your head inclines to me in a bow.
And your forehead beats on stone.
And so bloody is the snow.
My posture now is so straight.
Do you remember me in woe?
I see, you hope, I want to speak.
No. I `ll never breathe a word.
2017
I need a friend to understand
I need a friend to understand,
Not to protect, not to defend,
Who will forbid me to pretend,
Who will explain the things like that.
I need the truth to burn my head,
To make me groan, to make me hate,
To make me laugh, to make me cry,
To let me live and make me die.
I need the night to hide the eyes.
I need no warmth not to despise.
I need no changes to go on.
Just for forgiveness I am strong.
But at the truth I'm ill at once.
The mercy teaches to despise.
I damn the circumstance
You've made. Am I nobody to create?
Am I so weak just to decide?
I follow what they had designed.
What for I play their bitter roles?
The will is meek to act my own.
2016
The Subway
Let`s just meet and sit in cafe,
Let`s listen to the chime of forks.
Let`s move to subway, feeling shyness.
Let`s listen to the clock tic – toc.
You will uncover that I love you...
And I will see that I am your hunger,
That you have caught me like a flu.
The earth will go out from under.
And while the laughter we`ll fall silent.
We`ll separate at the bus stop.
And you`ll decide: "She is not mine".
And I`ll accept: "He is so cold".
2017
The Broken Glass
I looked at world through the broken glass
And could not understand why it's so cracked.
My heart was made of cool and chilling ice,
That's why in spring I am used to going mad.
I looked at you as if I was abused
With sight of your bluish-creamy hands.
You was so tiny, made of solitude
And to my shame you have refused to fade.
I knew your fingers cut with broken glass
I knew the reasons for you to be so cracked.
I never tried to love. I just despised.
And made you so fragile and deeply sad.
I saw the world but I failed to feel.
You felt the core and never tried to hide.
I locked the door, but could not conceal
The keyhole from your disclosing mind.
2016
The Wine
Drinking wine,I tried to smile.
I'm never yours,You're never mine.
Just silence makes us understand
Those crazy things we can't pretend....
2015
Feel Nothing
The suffocation makes me speak
With no conjunctions.
The pain will soothe,
The wounds will heal
My self-destruction.
No more I cry,
No more I bleed.
Just pale a little.
I am so safe,
As no more words
In vain are hissing.
I am so free.
I am alive.
Don't tell me something!
The fire dies,
As water cries,
And makes feel nothing.
2015
Prose
His gaze is floured with soda. His words are like smoke of the cigarettes. His lips are dry and spicy - like cinnamon.
The Sketchers – Cycle
I.
Once you gave me the wings. Ginger-red and very light, they were sparkling under the sunrays like the golden sand.
Woken up early in the morning and willing to drink some orange juice, I`ve been spreading them on the way to the kitchen. Then, being already winged, I stood barefoot on the cool balcony tile and welcomed frisky dawn of the hot, great Sun.
***
I didn`t want to sleep that evening. And exhausted by thinking about the eventualities, I`ve decided to dial your number.
–Hulloa?!
– Hi!
– Agnia? I am a little bit busy. Call me back tomorrow, please.
– I`m sorry, I don`t think I would. Battery is dying.
– But you are at home. Just charge it!
– You are at home too – in the kitchen, I suppose. And it is rather late for any plans...
– I love you, Agnia. I really have to go.
I looked at my watch. It was a half past eleven, practically midnight. Stars – in the sky.
I got up; reached to the mirror, put the skin foundation. I was debating for some time between caramel and cowberry-red lipstick. Finally, I chose the caramel one. I rimmed my eyes with eyeliner. I put on the powdery-colored warm dress and full-fashioned stockings. I slipped into my coat. Ginger wings behind my back longingly shuddered.
The street was empty. I felt like a heroine of some beautiful French movie. I felt like champagne trapped in the bottle. I wanted to play. To play on the lips, heating the blood. You gave me my ginger-red wings and you were likely to leave my life. But I had the wings. You could not take them back...
With a bland smile on my face, I came to your house. I raised my head, looking at the windows, and saw the gorgeous female silhouette in your window. It was such a bittersweet feeling.
I wanted to be with both of you. I wanted to intervene or to assist, to paint you, to ink over your shadows on the walls, to accentuate the lips colour, and hardness of her nipples.
I wrapped myself tighter in the coat...
II.
Her name was Joan. She had thickly green eyes, the colour of the absinthe. She liked black and burgundy clothes. She had smooth dark hair, which had been always gathered up into a bun. She was very composed.
Joan liked organ music. She wanted to be a woman since her childhood: to be sophisticated, experienced woman with sensual mouth frowns and profound frown lines between eyebrows. Her lipstick was of the plum colour. Nails were sharp and red. Rings aimed to tear the black veil of tights, when she tightly fitted her bronzed calves.
She played the contrabass.
In the evening she used to undress, open her legs, and play. Her music blended with the stringy tail of woody fragrance and blew away into the dark space of the city. Nobody dared to reproach her. Everybody forgave, having seen her captivating shadow figure in the window.
III.
The time I`ve got acquainted with Joan, I felt blue. And vice versa. Feeling blue, sitting the vast august park, I caught her gaze.
– Do you like decadence?
– To tell the truth, not so much. It`s like a pill. You take it when you`re sick, and it tastes bitter in the mouth.
We laughed. We sat in the cafe.
IV.
Joan`s lips were hard and dry, they tasted like bitter chocolate with sea salt.
Sometimes I wanted to rip into them and sometimes just one sight of them made me sick – I was craving for some water...
She had only one man in her life – her contrabass. She shared him with me. In the dusty summer evenings, the contrabass sounds spread around the neighborhood as if rumbles of thunder. Sounds – drops, sounds – lightings were beating into the hearts, crushing the roofs. We did these natural disasters together. Together. Powerless and inexorably weak, we tore the chords.
Our silhouettes twitched convulsively, clearly distinguishable through the thin gossamer of white shades.
Joan`s wisps of hair strayed out of the bun, were clinging to her soaked face, to her pitchy eyebrows.
I liked to paint her. I drew her features on the margins of my notebook listening to the jejune lectures, in my note sitting in the bus, on the wet windows at home, on the wall when falling asleep... Standing down your windows, I could not help recognizing her back, the wisps of hair, her shape, and this oomph with which she was able to tear the chords.
V.
Pale morning scattered sea salt all over the seaside. Salty footprints. Salty tears. Colours...
I took my watercolours. I undressed. In my white dress I stood in the green sea and squeezed the red colour into the water. I felt joyful. Champagne of my soul petered out, failing to burst out to fill the cups of life.
Joan had always shared her contrabass with me. I had been always in love with her... Why should I be jealous?
2014 – 2017
His gaze is floured with soda...
His gaze is floured with soda. His words are like smoke of the cigarettes. His lips are dry and spicy -like cinnamon.
Great! He is just great!
No far-fetched arguments, sufferings, broken bloody hearts, no sleepless nights, no mawkish sentimentality – no feelings.
She tries to be like he is.
It just doesn't work. She feels her hands growing harder and drier, but she falls. It was just a dead branch of the tree, she held on to. She practices eye contact no longer. She suffocates with her silence. She swamps her feelings with everything what is able to kill them... She shivers, wrapping in the plaid and denies herself to weep herself out – she ought to be strong...
She cries of pain and with joy. She writes music and prose. She paints pictures. Often she laughs with contagious laughter and cuts her skin, trying to avoid emptiness in her heart. She loves light.
Her heart blazes with blood and fire. Her purity brakes against the white tile of the bathroom. She cannot live without him.
His gaze is floured with soda. His words are like smoke of the cigarettes. His lips are dry and spicy -like cinnamon.
Great! He is just great!
She is jealous of him, and often whispers in his ears: "Teach me to be like you are".
He laughs with his barbed short laughter, at the sound of which she feels uneasy, and replies – "You can`t".
She misses his hands, his lips, and his words awfully... But she forbade herself to give him this warmth. She wants to be just like he is...
When the night falls, he lies down to read the newspaper. And she lies beside him, exploring the features of his face. She misses his warmth and tenderness awfully...
She pillows her head on his chest and asks to be taught to this masculine obduracy... to this spicy and steady coldness, emitting the strength...
His incredulous, almost humiliating look. His dispassionate but scorching kiss – "As such?"
She turns to the wall. "Hit me" – pumps in her head. She awfully needs the pain, just because it is more or less acceptable for coldness and frigidity of the character, just because that is the only thing she allows to herself.
But he just leaves to have some wine... The tears are running across her face... She just does not know how to live....
2007 – 2017
The empty glass feeling
One of my favorite feelings is the feeling of an emptyglass. To be empty is the main condition of a thick glasstumbler.
If water stays in a glass for too long – the raid formsalong the water line.Tea and coffee fill such glasses in the train. You may fillsuch tumbler with the dirt or with the crushed stone – to use itas a measuring tool or to grow the seedlings. An empty glasshas larger potential, than a full one – filling may changethe glass mission for a long time; it may change the veryessence of a glass.
The water – suddenly poured out, drunk. Once thewater overfilled the glass. It did the glass heavy. Now the glassis empty again.
A glass filled by the rainwater.
A glass of water, drunk in the morning and then left in an empty flat.
Aclinking glass in a rumbling train. The teaspoon has been leftin it.
A glass, eager for filling and then fordepletion. The glass that is used to being filled and then depleted.
A glass that was created to be used for slaking thirst. The jar which the most part of time stays inemptiness. The jar of acceptance and of giving.
To speak symbolically, this thing is my closest soulmate. It is both firm and fragile. It can crack because of thedifference of temperatures...
However, it can endure a falling from the small height...
2017
The Universum
The thought experiment on Schrцdinger's cat, Pandora's Box myth and legend about the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil have much in common. It is known that by his experiment Schrцdinger wanted to show the imperfection of the quantum theory. The quantum theory, as considered, provides the basis of The Universe. As long as we don't open a box, we don't let the Knowledge out.
Schrцdinger's cat may be considered simultaneously both alive and dead. We can consider the evil, locked in the box presented by Zeus, existent and nonexistent at the same time. The person could have been considered simultaneously guilty and innocent, if he had not tasted the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Well, if we had not tasted the fruit, we would not have learnt the limits of Good and Evil... Still is it possible that we would keep ourselves from temptation and passion in this case? Would we behave in a different way?
The animals know nothing about abstinence. Are the animals guilty? We forgive a little child his non-compliance of church fasting, foul language and masturbation. Actions fulfilled by children are unconscious. Is it something but The Knowledge that drives us into penance? It seems, these are we ourselves, who drew black and white boundaries, ensuring ourselves the hell with our own pangs of conscience.
The Schrцdinger's cat would have been simultaneously both alive and dead, as it had hardly eaten the forbidden fruit. It had never analyzed its life, as it has no consciousness. Thus, we also would never learn about its condition if we did not dance to the tune of our curiosity.
The person could be considered both guilty and innocent, if he knows no boundaries between good and evil. He would simply live his life. He would just exist. His life would be unconscious. As existentialists would say, he wouldn't overcome his being.
The struggle between good and evil, righteousness and transgression provides us our own hell. And if we – those who got used to pain and drama – would be forgiven and sent to Paradise with the bright sun and soft climate, would we be able to find there rest and enjoyment?
Only an ignorant one or a holy-fool can enjoy the delight of the quiet land. We`ve got used to be the tormented with our own demons and uneasy conscience.
All of us are kind and angry, alive and dead, sinful and innocent at the same time. We are the essence, world matter, a kind of substance, an animal type...
Does the God judge animals? "All dogs go to Heaven..." Dogs eat mice, gnaw each other, chase cats, steal sausages, copulate... Still they look at us with the eyes full of serenity, devotion and kindness. While the human is aware of the boundaries of good and evil...
We suffer from lynch– law, self-flagellation, self-torture. Moreover, we are in permanent fear of the last assize beyond our lives` limits. Maybe the The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden is the expulsion from the serenity...
2017
Time
Time has many unpredictable ways to return times of past refreshed and renewed. Possible and impossible shades of old fade at the daytime and thicken at dark. Waterlike epochs merge into the vessels of days, weeks, months.
Indifference turns into gratitude. Gratitude oozes bliss. Bliss blooms with love. Love decays to bleed. And then it bleeds, nourishing the soil of wisdom, feeding trees of cognition, impregnating seeds of devotion.
Time raises its own garden, where the sun is the spirit of life, where the life is just the chain of the memories, where the memories are the tastes of the wines. And the wines are the blood of emotions.
2017
The Flame-Searching Tale
Once upon a time the firehead Dragon lived down the apple oak. His green eye watched the world from out the grass so green and so bright in the morning.
The firelike Dragon watched the tree and the Sun above watched the dragon.
The tree was godlike and abundant. The apples were red and sweet. The oak was tall and strong. At night stars were like the sparks on the dragon firelike scales. In the daytime the Dragon looked like the son of the Sun.
The Dragon and the Sun lived in unity. The one above warmed the Earth. The one below watched it.
The era past, the year past, the day past and the minute. The clay appeared, and the man appeared from out the clay. The Clayman was too weak. He needed fire to make him stronger.
So the Sun promised to strengthen the Clayman and gave him the faith for his heart to believe. The Sun was wise; he kept whole the earth alive. But the autumn came. The rain fell down. The Sun hid. Only the firehead Dragon shone in the forest.
The Clayman came to discover – he found the oak so tall and so strong and the Dragon down the oak, whose bright green eye looked at him. And the Dragon said that he could have given the fire to the Clayman to be strong and some apples to satisfy his hunger. The Clayman looked at the sky but saw no Sun shining. He remembered that the Sun promised to give him flame to live with bless and strength in his heart. "Keep faith", said the Sun. But the sky was cloudy and no Sun was shining. "How can I believe if I cannot see?"– the Clayman wondered.
The winter was close. So the Clayman asked the Dragon to give him fire and to feed him with the apples.
The flame wrapped the Clayman from under his feet, and whole the garden suddenly turned into fire. All the abundant trees in the woods, the Dragon watched for so long, flashed with fire. The terrible fire ate all the beauty and couldn`t stop eating.
When everything turned into ashes, just the Clayman remained. He was torn with remorse so that he became a human begging for mercy.
The wise Sun came on the darkened sky and spoke to the human: "These are two fire-sources you can take your strength from– one is high above your head. It warms and gives life to you and your small world. It is rare and sometimes it even doesn`t warm you enough to believe, but be sure it does; keep its` spark in your heart.
You can also feel the fire at your below. But the below fire is fast, it is close and it promises, but it leaves you nothing, but the torture and the ashes when it ends.
The human gave a nod.
The ashes made soil thicker and soon the human grew other trees.
The fire head Dragon was overthrown to the deepest core of the Earth for his shine not to seduce humans anymore. Sometimes it tries to watch the world, once so friendly to him, but brings just earthquakes and suffering. Now oaks bring just acorns that are tasty just for pigs.
As for the human, he is still searching for fire. The fire in his heart and the fire above sometimes seem too faint for him, although just they are healing. The human feels the fire down of his stomach and in his limbs. This fire is close; it is restless, but causes just destruction.
Time flows. And the human learns.
2017
The Spring Has Come
The spring has come. It sprang like a witch on the broom, laughing, etching its mark on everything and everybody.
It seems even, that the spring hides something carnal and carnivorous, promising hot summer heat. It hisses, imping feathers into the bare poor wings of human hearts, still it ghoulishly digs into the minds, poisoning and intoxicating them...
Everything is of the sweet, bitter, rotten, earthy scent... Nothing is fresh, cool and sparkling. No wind. Just wine, winding, twisting, stretching mind over and over...again and again.
A strange preception of the spring...
2014
