After a rain

(translation of Лученко Святослава "Після дощу")

At night, after a rain, silence creeps with some endlessness of translucent linen, while the reflection of distant lightings still blinks among dimness, as a hardening in darkly grey sleep world. The calmness is barely, ornamentally, as much carefully broken by thin nightingale trills, twitters and calls. Sounds are intertwined in a boundless, earsplitting quietness.
The taste of air coalesced birch’s presence, softness and dizziness. Oh, it is so much serenity in your songs, and the power received by your spirit from a thundershower, which was unrestrained in its desires and in the yearnings’ embodiment! Night carries darken and velvet thirst for tranquility and deep sleep, but it seethes on the bottom of a heart, which seemed to be empty and devastated… It seems as some sky gave up its moisture of filled by power clouds. It seems as some lover feels, that he had a drink of ardent, blushing passion of Fire, that her warm body is now tendered, appeased and laid alongside... It is the emptiness, which provides fullness, the blankness which will last only till the state is changed, in a moment… In an instant the calmness will be spilled, as well as sweet fatigue, as well as sleep, which similarly ornamented with some music of sighs, songs of celestial and earthly creations…
A heat stepped back. Humid haze will satisfy the thirst of breathing to full extent for a short time. Ideas want to stop and just become a one of numberless patterns of the night. They would gladly play with echoing among fallen asleep houses, frighten birch’s leaves with a light breeze or embarrass the mirrors of puddles with the last drops of the rain. And that’s why the ideas are so tired...
Nightingale’s silver coloraturas are expressive by its simplicity and naturalness, the sound stands like vibrations of invisible little-bells... Little-bells are the bells of my soul which regenerates itself again... little by little. Weak nestlings carry ashes of the bitter past in their beaks and change them to dews drops or rain, splash over herbages and flowering. Herbage is herbage of disappointments and new hopes… It is a pleasure and lightness of the uncomplicated life which curls, gradually becoming look like a bird cozy nest. It’s somewhere deep in a heart… in a small hideout... or just somewhere else.
The night is still surrounding – full of drinking, dazzled and sweet-scented. Tonight, as well as and in all of those days needed to be outlived yet… without you, I feel stronger, than ever before your existence. Maybe I possessed these feeling `cause of the sky, which covered me with a universal blanket here, and you – there. Or might be it’s just a Juvenile Moon, which you are able to spot from your window or just by simply walking and suddenly glancing upwards. For all I know, you will certainly look at him. And you’ll be staggered, how time passes…
From time to time we will look at the Moon simultaneously. Possibly…
The thundershower left me with so much, woven from Love, soft air. The Love, that is not possible to overpower and comprehend. Its existence is the same static condition, as a change of day and night, those wheels of life, their motion. That motion, possibly, will be named as the way to you… Once… Dear… And now, the night is lost in the nightingale’s quietness. It lulls me, calls to rest, tired by rattling summer, soul…

14 August 2007

Iouri Lazirko
Copyright ©2007 Iouri Lazirko