The Vodka

What a man needs to fill the desert
That dwells in broken heart and soul?
What  helps him to maintain the balance
Between the still and wind that blows?

When mind and sense fight strong each other,
When Blues come dark, and soul explodes,
Hands shake and curve, and head turns over
And thoughts take way that starts and burns.

Wind drives the sand across the desert –
Pieces of heart that loved too hot.
No blade of grass, no bush, no flower
Could sprout in such wizened ground.

The sun of treason dries the soil,
The moon of treachery covers hard.
But rootlet of blue campanula
Is living still under the crust.

What a man needs to help the flower
Burst out of the moaning ground?
What a man needs to set a cloud
Right on the way of burning sun?

He finds a rescue and he takes it,
No matter where it could lead.
A bottle, volumed half a litre
Can rise a flower for a bit.

It’s filled with water and with fire –
With deadly mixture it is filled.
He takes it all, not realizing
That rescue’s false and bitter thing.

The crackled soil drinks water now,
The fire gives the force to root.
It brakes the crust and blossom out
Right in the rays of frying sun.

It fires the flower, fries the ground,
But man takes next, so on and on,
And water turns to pretty cloud
That hides the rays of burning sun.

Blue campanula lines its stalk now
And turns its pimple to the Blues,
Which came renewed of bright blue color
And the whole world sets light and good.

The more he drinks the fairer’s out
And man comes down to his fair world,
Enjoys the land that’s only desert
Covered by lots of funny balls.

Fulfilled with light and fair colors
A man forgets all bitter things –
His problems, barriers and borders,
And, finally, he falls asleep.

He’s fast asleep, not understanding
That fire’s left down in the ground.
Imprisoned it is full of dreamings
To rise and burn it all around.

The sun is obscured, heat is downed
But wind is free, it blows on.
A gust of wind takes off the cloud
And crushes it into atoms.

The heat takes force and burns the flower,
It’s starting slowly to fade.
And when the time comes, fire’s out
And licks the stalk by tounges of red.

The stalk does curve and turns brown,
Blue pimple flashes up and turns black.
The sun heats on, and ground’s dressing
Into red mantle in the end.

The mantle covers the whole ground
And grows thicker and waves up.
The Blues inhale the smoke of brown.
The man wakes up and fast springs back.

When he returns, he glances at world down
And breathes the smoke of burning land.
The smoke bears parts of shattered problems,
Which join together in the end.

That rescue’s false and not the one then
And man has to protect himself
From treachery, treason and vodka
Instead of rescue that holds pain.