Morning touches by its transparent coolness the warmness of a child's sleep... I wake up... Feelings of the new day hold the same freshness and colorfulness, as well as this morning ray of a young sun... Quickly, I put something on and hurry outside – inside of a flower-garden, where under the shade of old cherries and sunny spots, near my grandma house, - tulips are blazing... Red-flames-like, yellow, rose-striped – they seem like a strange wonder in the May-wise, yet young world... and in my five-year-old world as well! Presumably, I’m not thinking deeply enough, as much, as I would feel my unity with this surrounding of effulgent morning. My soul is opened and sincere, catches the endless stream of jiffies in the aromas of flowers, in their paints, in voices of cheerful spring birds which settle their nests under the barn roof...
I remember as it now, I am that stream of a crisp sweet-scented air, which flowed as some juicy honey into my heart... and echoed within as strange, yet unborn songs. In that distant and, at the same time, such near space of my dreams there is no past and future, there is no agitation and fear – there is only the Soul of Creator, which is incarnated in the souls of trees and flowers, birdies and Child... They are inseparable and opened, and that is why – happy without any comparison, without words and ideas. They are wonderful as magnificent tulips which hold in petals the secret of inflammable, natural beauty. They are wise by the existence, since they not desire to be something else, other than they are. Something will be changed, something will remain only as semi-lucent flashback on the bottom of nature, and warm spring wind will live and will twirl a distant echo in the sky of a swallow...
translated by Iouri Lazirko