I walk up the broken stairs to a garret. Half-dark and cool small room: shelves, small boxes with various junk. A little, barely ajar window allows a bit light on old books, on the frames of forgotten photos... The floor tiles barely sparkle with murky terra cotta and almost forgotten world of antique scent echoes with a cool air...
Eyes are getting used to the dusk quickly, surrounds acquire clear forms, muffled colors seem pleasant, becalmed look slides farther and meets His Look. The character appears from darkness, which hides in the corners of this strange and secluded place. He’s seems as someone most closed to me, someone seen hundred times. From half-opened eyelids flows some tranquility of light fatigue – It looks like He sleeps and, at the same time, contemplates attentively my quiet approaching. Thin outlines under the shades of walls, a white, to my surprise long, neck around which dark stripes of hair beautifully curl and - hands. His wonderfully refined arms: thin in a wrist, with long fingers, large hands seem carved from a marble by some talented sculptor or painted by some painter from Heaven. It appeared instantly – such hands might have Angels and… Poets.
The black-out space gradually lights up with a strange brilliance... I feel approaching of something unusual, light shiver runs over me... some presentiment... My look as if magnetized again runs across to that corner, where it finds the changed picture – He’s similarly squinting. He is dressed in something dark and rests or submerges himself deeply into his secret thoughts, but instead of him I begin to see more and more expressly: at first bright, almost blindingly light, that gradually acquires outlines - in pure radiance appears Angel with His face. Quiet and a bit sad, but such bright, such light, as though created from Endlessness of Light... gets a clear look to my eyes, and farther to the heart. His unusual, quiet voice flows softly as silver-belled music... Words or just simply sense is elusive and such as important... melts somewhere deeply... remains in me as a secret flashback. He talks about wandering and about an eternal search, about suffering which gives expiation, about purification... He’s talking a lot about the past and future, warns, preaches and gives some advises... And knows that everything spoken will be forgotten until there will not be a necessity to get such essential Knowledge from the bottom of the soul.
I listen captivated – that Angel, which is the essence of Poet, he incredibly strong and incredibly sensitive at the same time... He has a power and seeks out for some support… I feel this phantasmagoria of our conversation as a communication beyond of any world... ether... light ray becomes for me as breathing and holds on the verge of life and something Greater, on the verge of knowledge and Truth... sense and … Eye-opener. Warm voice, pleasant… that already a long ago sounded between the lines of your poetry: ”Amore, wake up..! Do you hear me?” The look of Poet came with a light smile; light breeze of his breathing touches lips... ”I hear... I always will hear...Always...”
Translated by Iouri Lazirko