Your colour is lullabying

Sometimes you can hear not with ears, but with a skin: with your fingers on fabric, with your hair sinking thought the palms, with your muscles on anxious joints.

Sometimes you can hear not the music, but emotions. Words, voices, harmony, rhythm, — all of them are spiralling into one multidimensional Rubik's Cube; all of them are thickening into a rich hodgepodge of colours; and then you can’t understand if the drums are ringing inside of your brains or if the song itself is closing its eyes with joy.


Sometimes you can hear nothing.

And nothing can sometimes hear you.


Today you hear winter.


Being on the ground floor it’d be like being outside.

Your elbows are on a windowsill. Your droopy eyes are chained to a sleepy late-night path.

You are therefore one short step from that path: just breathe and touch the earth with your cosy socks. The earth is chubby because of yesterday’s raindrops.

Smells like roaring lorry. Hears like water and warm winter.


The colour palette is in shades of a half past four morning.


On the opposite side of your street your neighbour still keeps Christmas: the garland made of white-blue lights flickers during four finger taps, and is lit during three. One-two-three-four, one-two-three. You can almost hear ‘Fantaisie Impromptu’ by Chopin. Right. Four. Left. Three.

That white-blue trembling sneaks into puddles along with the low smiles of lanterns further down the block. The blue glow is dancing, the copper illumination is dearer.


The cat runs — grey mouse — grey stain — on the canvas.


The windows are like card backs in Tarot spread on the walls like on the tables.

The windows are mirrors, and the mirrors are caves.

The windows run with perspective.

With the cat.


Tell us, sky! Do you exist? Have you been always franking us? Both on the left, both on the right one cannot find a difference. Your colour is lullabying.

Your colour is dual; at first glance it’s pure blue-plum gouache, but looking closely… The sky is scarlet. Scarlet as a wisp of a tapestry.

The scarpestry breaks through plumouache.


Suddenly a little white twinkle hops into winter, and suddenly dies.


Your heart has grown to your tongue root and to your little alcove under your ribs, and the heart is writing-writing-writing, and is escorting passing cars, and is fuming-fuming-fuming, and is sweating like in a sauna.

It’s dribbling outside.



Homely.


Nothingly.




Примечание: это самоперевод «Цвета твоего колыбельного» с некоторыми поправками и изменениями. На английском звучит, право слово, лучше.