The evening was sung by birds,
their voices hang in the air with rose petals like syrup,
which I cooked yesterday, for the first time, for the first time.
I know, I know, my words are like a colored surface on a black pillow of paper,
nothing, everyone fills this void in their own way.
The moon takes off with a glowing spark from the locomotive of the night,
sooner or later, let's throw the coals of conversation into the furnaces, pour the drink,
let's talk and be silent, let's smear ourselves with soot, because where will you meet it, soot, now.
Only in this verse, see?
Glassblowers, chimney sweeps, mills - forwarders, marketers, consultants. I open my old cupboard, drive the dwarf out of the cookies, and find no rose syrup - just a small black galaxy.
translated by Maryna Tchianova
Yulia Stakhivska - the evening was sung by birds -
© Copyright: Марина Чиянова, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120091905973
Свидетельство о публикации №120091905973
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