to the poet music

before you slide up to the very heaven
along the trembling scared string of violin
before you weep out the sweetness of cello
and taste the aroma of longing
before you dance and sparkle in the springs
consisting of the tiny drops released by flute,
and swim in grand-piano's roar of waterfalls
or being magnetized reflect its moons in silence
before the orchestra has started to unleash
the oceans upon the concert hall
and even
before you hear bits of ancient drums
that circulate the blood of your desire
live
sink in the mud of day
in the messy resolutions
sloppy performances
and stupor
of feeling deed and thought
have a cup of bitter coffee
in the morning, count money
cry over broken dish
eat a cold dinner, go shopping
exhaust yourself by worries
over nothing --
 
and realize and feel and touch
your soul at night and how cracked
how textured it has become
how ready
 
you plough it ... then ... the wind..
will come

2 Апрель 2010 г.