Wood

Poems

The poem always was for me the form of expression of feelings. In two-three stanzas finds room much – the overflowing emotions asking on will of thought, impetuous passion. Not having possibility to give vent to this all on a paper, for a long time would descend suma from an overabundance of feelings. And so – anything, it was possible to consult. Improbably it would be desirable, not spending, certainly, not deserved analogies to repeat thereupon Sergey Yesenin's words: «as to other autobiographical data, - they in my verses».

Wood

The scratch lingering has opened gate,
Over a bog – a grey-haired fog.
On a shower – about words care,
Old wood has concealed a deceit.
Masts of fur-trees tower,
Covers a fog needles,
Wood plays that pipe,
That Arsita has found in paradise.
The voice over a gloomy thicket is audible
«Mum, mum! Well where you?»
Wood after all seems only sleeping -
Waits for the moment, eyes are empty.
Only mother has not come on a call,
Has not heard pale call.
And the child shouted from a pain,
Choking in embraces of mosses.
Also dense fur-trees were closed,
Have absorbed – and again back
And a lingering song have started singing:
Say, late already to search.

1994

19.01.2008 11:47

Poems

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