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Autumn doesn't begin when it's cold at night,
when the stars in the western sky do not blaze,
but it is crimson, lined with a green belt.
Autumn begins at five o'clock in the evening,
when the sun sets over the mountain
and only the tops of the trees still see its radiance.
That time you grow so sad, so lonely.
And to escape from the spleen, you steam in a porcelain pot of tea,
light a patchouli stick,
start listening to the enchanting sounds of the Guarnieri violin
of the immortal Niccolo: sometimes tender, sometimes passionate.
And then the chords of the frantic Ferenc telling the story
of the immensity, timelessness and omnipotence of the Universe here and now.
And then all of a sudden
the Tuva throat singing,
the Krishna's sweet mantras
and the Sufi whirling melodies
fall on you taking you away.
Smoke_drinks_sounds
I go to distant mountains, to highlands.
I sit next to you here and now.
I kiss your fingers, I breathe through your hair.
I wonder how I've managed to survive these overwhelming emotions,
the ecstasy flowing from the top of my head to my heels.
Honey, bring me back to your life, please!
I wake up. Gateway. Night.
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© Copyright: Valentin Luchenko, 2020