***
Collective of the graves
Black raven lost in white snow
You remain silent
The silence is still as ambiguous as before the funeral
***
Returning home is near
Counterbattery fire
Burst intestines are covered in painful spots
Eat vomit because we all have eat and die
They say war is a milky night mother
After all one born from the night
Must someday return home to the darkness
***
I grow in the dew under the branches of the heavy arms of the forest I am the grass mown by time, rain, sun, hope you are a candle that burns only in the blinding heat you are the rain that waters the cemetery paths we can’t find each other we can only be snow and everything around is white as if nothing had happened and it’s over forever like a paper book about a felled tree the snow continues its path off-road
***
I don’t know why a graveyard crawled out from under my bed
I don’t know why all the flowers are tied with a mourning ribbon
“We bury the old world” – says the bird and dies
The agony of the cemetery bursts like a vein
Mothers sew dresses for their daughters from their vaginas
Daughters marry soldiers
Mosquitoes drink the blood of the universe
Cats dream of a bowl of blood with a drop of milk
Military pilots fly to the smell of blood
People are insects – at least mosquitoes
***
sakura is silent
calm bird drinks silence
***
spring is like a drowning
we drink damp heat
time to go to bed
***
the frog drinks from the bowl of autumn
water and air mix with each other
***
autumn colors stuck to the skin
the leaves underfoot beg for help
***
Getting to know silence
The clouds in the sky burst silently
The veins on the arm burst silently
The dead cry silently
Thunder rumbles without any unnecessary sounds
Fish heads don’t scream
Even mosquitoes don’t squeak
A military pilot prepared to drop a quiet (but only for the time being) air bomb
***
the existence of clouds for the sake of the existence of rain
the creation of man for the sake of the creation of god
I know everything in the world except the truth
***
The future is water
The future is a spit
I collect spit and tears
I pretend that the cemetery is a space rocket
I pretend I’m going to the stars
But in fact I’m picking mushrooms in the forest after an explosion in the forest near Hiroshima
***
Religion was invented for those
Who have not yet died
Each of us dreams of being Jesus Christ
Each of us is a baby
Вut where are the Magi
5 new pieces
***
lips emerge from the evening gloomy snow
lights of blueberry nights teach the eyes to sleep
and if your face floats in silence
noiselessly and invisibly
then I will still draw your features
in every rustle of a winter evening
I love you even though you don’t have a name
you will be the black square of my triangular heart
you will be immense and inexplicable
and then I will run out of gouache
and your face will be painted with my blood
from where
do you get your name if I’m selling you to make money
do I really love you if I sell your features for money
?
I don’t love you at all and I don’t know you at all
no one cares for anyone in the snowy space
I teach your lips to sleep I pacify your lips
your name is a black square
we all live in portrait frames and only
snow
and only snow
and only snow
and only snow
***
The legacy of silence grows among the reeds of what is forgotten
Life never ends and silence goes to sleep in a tired cemetery
A girl flies like a swallow through the concrete night painting time with a brush
Too much water and the paint is completely stale and the teacher scolds
The orphanage speaks silently to the blizzard
And on the next street, a retirement home sails into the sky with its sails spread
The final stop
The final goal
The middle silence
***
What’s hiding behind the window glass? The rain falls asleep. Red splashes flow down from top to bottom. The emptiness shines. Silence mumbles. Rifles whistle. The fires are raging. Warheads play with birds. Houses turn into bloodthirsty monsters and swallow the future. Explosions scream. The baby sleeps in a cradle and dreams. Window frames whisper to the walls. A window will never become a mirror for time flowing down like water into a toilet. And what, after all, is hiding behind the glass?
***
The bird does not know what silence is and sings songs with its cut throat
***
Tree looking for an apple
The tree is looking for a child
The body is growing
The body is getting old
The cell searches for the soul
And the soul has died
***
What is emptiness
In the hands of a beggar is an empty can of cola with change
What is loneliness
This is when birds still return home from warm countries
Аnd you look out the window and realize that these birds are no longer (none?never?) a flock
***
every evening the bird thinks about the sky
every night the cell thinks about emptiness
every morning feathers dream of flight
every noon the beak begs for alms
every new bird day is a small escape from the past and present
the shores play with the waves in sighs, cries of silence and knocks of inevitability
the bird learns to walk again on the hot sand, but its legs don’t obey
every moment of wasted flight is an expectation of death
a bird flies forgetting about its legs just because it can fly
what is the meaning of flight and where does the water of time flow?
every bird hides a cemetery in its nest
each leg hides cement in its nest
every head hides meaninglessness in its nest
every void expands to the horizon line
and there’s nothing beyond the horizon