The Goddess

I’m leaving you
At infinite rest,
Amid dead oracles,
In flower and prime
Are the glades, allegedly
Having left the measure
On humanly warm
Scale.
And, creating a myth
By weak-willed presence,
Enjoying the value
Enclosed by me,
Indeed you’ll consider yourself
A goddess
With native paleness of face
Amongst those motley dreams.

Were all gods born like a day?
Was the seal of muteness put on all?
Which child’s heart tear out the beast
From beyond the clouds?
Your soul — oh undress it,
Having chosen the favourite features,
Create a face and a mouth,
And believe in its words.
And the ring with “sorrow” inscribed
Can’t be took off; then at night — to altar,
And to raise a knife, and at cold stroke
To sever, to cut off;
And let the dead chorus come to life
Like the sacrifice with which I burn,
And the ring will roll down into dark
To lie there for good.

In the room full of miracles
Relieving the vampire guards,
I risk to be recognised
By the new guest
Dressed in cheap furs.
Do you remember, the goddess, your laugh?
Oh no — the lips have grown numb,
And ashes from stars on the skin,
And a black flower in the hair.
And where is that pompous fire?
Only grey abyss in the eyes,
And your body is a whole world,
An unborn world.
And where were you when the beast
Was turning around the stream,
Lightly, — so only start in his sleep
A half drunk satyr?

One can’t tell completely his soul
Having closed it in thousands of words
But, — one can cast it into derision
Before contemptible kin;
And the wind carries petals
Under scalding cover of crows,
Prepare for the confluence inward,
For the rescue outside.

You can’t hide your craving eyes
In this marvelous night of the ritual,
And the shiver will conquer, revealing
The wish for beginning;
We’ll go back where hovers
Our ocean mysterious and former,
And an infant peacefully lies
On the waves, serene.

The Abyss

What will you take?
That vermeil cold,
A cozy bliss,
The diary of my dreams,
Oh winter nightmare...

What will you take?
A brown fan,
Waving it,
To ascend a hill, —
A snowy-white chancel.

What will you take?
A whortleberry perdition,
A silent roll,
Which the lizards
Prepared in the morning.

What will you take?
Your nakedness,
And all nakedness,
And nakedness’ shade,
And a naked word.

What will you take?
That golden chant,
Which gives no rest,
Which arouses discord,
Which is evaded by “no”.

What will you take?
Caressing twilight
Of desolate palms
And pallid masks,
And meat of loaves
Weeping, and the smoke,
The smoke that frightened everyone so much;
You’ll take yourself from me,
Oh angel,
You’ll take yourself from me,
Oh angel,
And again — cold sand,
Stones and white sand...
Games of the stones,
And the desert chills;
The sand, when crumbling,
Tickles the palms of the stones.

The stones and the white sand -
What am I to do
With the abyss?
What should I fill
The abyss with?
How am I to cover with this
The abyss?

The Aroma

Pulse of ineffable shore, the air —
Separation, strip of bitterness.
Pour, becoming white on white,
Flesh on the sand!..
We’ll call the birds to feast;
Hey, motley ones, flicker!..
Reveal me, oh death, to the goodness
Of those who set foot...
Oil of the scenery has rusted away, gouache
Of extensive ecstasy; get out!
The sovereign’s shallop, steep-sided, is coming,
But there are shadows on the deck...
Swift is the flap of the sails; out of here!
Sanguineous cold of heaven, blissful
Shyness,
Happiness which is more silent than ice.
But not vainly heaved the hand
Over the lakes of day-spring blood! —
The trees still hide, but roar
Is heard, and flutes...
And came to meet, hands
Glittering with emptiness,
And assisted those, who were close to dust,
To rise, and carried in their arms.
“To lave feet at your threshold...”
Unfamiliar knock; to be all ears,
File-hard staff...
“Sunrise will rejoice at my lightful face...”
To drive away fear like wolves that
Keep watch over the weakened...

“Joyance for you,
Malicious soul;
The tune’s dying out,
The boundary of night...”

Scenes of the battle, the rain...

“Having closed the eaves,
To get carried away,
The new pledge is
The old life.
We’ll drink up the pain, —
The cup is filled;
Iced is
The lake of sleep...”

From chaos — along the blade, along the axis of fate...

“The hummingbird”, from ashes — to ashes;
I’ve found the beast; I’m searching for my home.

And he’s infinitely surfeited with
   The aroma of yours!..

Mystery’s Fracture

The dawn make-up anew, and mystery’s
Face was growing dim on fabric white.
Winter sleep has gathered grief
In its palm. Splinters of overripe

Words; and my duty — this instant
To measure by myself in repentance,
In everyday fetters torture,
In front of mystery slipping away.

While the snow started beating in marvellous tornado,
And the fingers were so reckless
That casually passed along slopes of tusks
Troubling the beast-dweller.

And laboured trembling is broken,
Every joy smells like decay.
New posters will be attached,
Old buffoons go on the stage...

And luster of the garnet dance,
And union holy and inconceivable,
Once more will fade along with daybreak shine
Secreting the collage of mask and grimaces.

How dear is the moment of mystery...

The Lily

but... broken...
Puffs of smoke
And the bonfire expired.
The twin brother
stalks boldly
along the sparkling sky.
The city’s asleep.
How to reflect
a magnificent gesture
in a sleep without dreams?
Where are the rules for
the defenseless?
Doesn’t he live on
the salt of denial,
that salutary
destruction,
which is akin to Chaos the great,
but designates the chains of many-sided
exceptions?

I’m hoary dust —
of the one who marked the arrows,
who marked with red clay
the pike,
who painted with white clay
the feathering,
who with black of the blackest
painted the shaft,
who, having discerned the prey,
gave the bow-string a wrench,
and put his exhalation
into a single shot...

But where’s that beast now?
Scales a mountain
lightly, at its ease, — a fallow-deer;
the mark, scarcely noticeable,
glitters on the faded side.
At the instant of the shot
the worlds came apart,
fell into you and the night.
The hands are black
from plain fire,
And is the modesty the same
with which the flaming lily
greet,
its glow I see
for three successive days
over there, beyond the ruins of the dream?..

Night. Shadows And Time

How night danced
on the threshold;
shadows, shadows, cats’ asylum,
flavour of fervour,
free play of squalid wishes;
How night danced
on the threshold...

Something has happened
in the sorrowful sod,
I’ve heard something, —
in pauses the chime of bells
is so prolix;
I’ve seen something,
in the rainfall season —
it was in a dream,
and another, — this beast...
it’s calm.

And darksome muscles
of grape beads
get warm from the skin,
from touches,
from stripped torment;
stark gestures
of times showed,
like masks in copybooks
of cynicism poets —
the last poets.

And the night smiled
a pearly grin,
and a flute in the shadow...
winds, play already,
on strained anguish —
they play;
let a thin blade
totally excise
the leafage from the mind, —
a carousel will sigh,
sigh more profoundly,
winter will come...

I put pieces
on an unsteady lea
of heavy seas,
where currents carry along
the bodies of impostors —
the depth dwellers,
and having looked as much as I wanted
into living eyes
and the ones from stained-glass windows,
I let out a dance
of cold fogs
on the whiteness breast;

But something has happened
an instant ago
in the sorrowful sod,
a screech
from gloom of the clouds
won’t grant me forgiveness;
the cup will be filled
with desires flowing
down the moon needle;
night, what did you want
to ask me about
coming back to the alcove?

The Garden

Is this the garden
where monsters perish,
lying spread-eagle and laughing
in torture,
in the garden of consciousness,
under the shade of the wind’s favourites —
the phantom-flowers
that nestle with dissolute
fragrance
and gather a swarm of the bee-wraiths...

I can hazard a guess
that the time has come,
when being marked
with vivid anxiety,
the one that’s lush and nervous,
the one that doggedly filled
the hall in the dark;
the window-leaks
watered with stars
in a dissolved mist,
and the old wound
knew no rest.

Sore weekdays — broadways,
a span wide,
and waking up
on a telephone night,
I listen carefully
to the dial tones,
dozing off in the ether
of intoxication.

But when the garden of prayers
closes lips,
the shadows will converge
by ribs,
I will rejoice
like a leaf’s razor,
having taken the flickering flame from the night,

and there’ll be dust and sorcery
and beauty,
when my dark garden
closes lips.