Back to the city, light escapes from the purple clouds.
The chains of rain fall smoothly, like souls into a new life.
And through the sweet tears of the night
the rustle of transparent wings is heard,
resembling umbrellas, under which strange fluffy animals
with the faces of foxes can be seen.
Their clawed paws gently pluck the berries:
dark, mysterious emeralds from Chinese elms -
banquet sounds - thirst, pleasure -
heard in this damp, dark place.*
How many miracles, how many wonders incomprehensible
twilight forest or park gives us,
strange aliens from Far Around.
We caught them with retinas, tufts, nose,
in the neural network we write the code binary:
"yes-no_yin-yang_day-night"
Again the sun, the vastness of the sky, the sun burnt meadows.
The bow behind my back flutters. The bowstring whistles in the wind.
I want to run away somewhere, but I don't have enough strength.
So I'll lie down in this hiding place, covered with high sedge.
Here I am, listening to the Nature with all my body.
Listening to Sounds of the Mother Earth, I'll fall asleep, diving into Mara**.
There I'll face my enemy who follows me for so long time.
I'll hypnotize him in a nick of time to leave him there abandoned and lost.
Such polyphony, such rich voices.
I touch flowers, they send me their fragrances in return.
I don't want to know how it works.
But I know for sure one have to live, just live.
Don't ask me why.
Sweep the clover path to the abyss.
There's rye field on the other side of it.
There's catcher sitting.
Don't ask what his name is and what he looks like.
He curly hair falls on his shoulders.
He is sitting with his back to us.
He plays the madrigal on the lute.
Hide your drums, folks!
Stop thinking so loud, guys!
Let's listen to him.
He's sharing his wisdom with us.
___
* a piece of lines inspired by Jena Woodhouse's poetry.
** mythic land of night dreams.