Your sky is saturated with a crimson sorrow of early autumn. A stripe of blazing horizon is getting reflected in eyes by tiny sparks and plays on cheeks with the reflection of the last flash.
You smell as the autumn forest, with the tart notes of pine, as barely withered yellow oak leaves, as the chill of evening dew in the bushes of elder. Your lips taste as autumn as well and they’re durable, as though some warm passion which complimented them with the ripe and aromatic flashback.
I love your hair which curls as if a hop. I like to play and kiss it, each time stronger, getting dizzy, to drink the smell of rain and golden waves, that the wind raises, fooling around on the peaks of birches. The affectionate world’s surrounding becomes yellow and peeps, echoes and twinkles in all fall-like warm colors. On the bottom of his green eyes it is so much of warmth – not embodied and insisted, as though a cluster of vine under the roof of endless, each time new, in the vary-colorful day.
To seek for you in the reflection of light or go to roam in the comfort of cool, moist lakes. To catch on a palm the patterns of volatile spider web or to contemplate, as the stripe of postmeridian shade lies down at an angle.
Serenity is rolling by the dark blue space of sky, in order to make delays on the bottom of nature with barely noticeable sorrow. Somewhere deeply inside of ideas and feelings the autumn already plays its wonderful, light and mysterious waltzes. It says that I, presumably, made up imaginary you, who look like this relaxed transparent day. And I, presumably, agree…
You exist in the various dimensions of my autumn dreams and flashbacks. And you’re similarly perceptible, as wind, as a smell of burned out by a sun leaves, as a drop of morning, cool dew which flows down over temples on the cheek of hot and desirous Mistress-Autumn and glitters with all colors rainbow.
Kiss that involuntary tear and quiet smile which lives on lips. Drink enough sorrow and light that comes through, filled with It up to the top of the soul and you will become the real, but not imaginary: a sun and air, sky and bird in fast-passing of the orange life. You will become the hero of my autumn Fairy-tale, which will spin us and bear in the whirlwind of the Indian summer there, where the endlessness warmness heat ups a stopped-beating heart, where wonderful music plays, where the silver ringing confluents with a kiss and sounds, filling us with the Joy of mysterious Sense.
Translated by Iouri Lazirko