3. 7. At the foot of Mount Athos. The Empty Pier

The ghostly empty pier
with the alarm bell of the waves of Ancient Greece
is just the end of my beginnings, – I’ll be back
as a tribute to solar spin inertia, but forever late
for hundreds of the flights to Paradise,
while travelling in deep shamanic woods
and villages, without weighing windy
all for as all against. A hypothetical cool match? –
with mossy poems, moldy songs –
is nothing interesting, just corporeal, bland,
the dress of earthly life without changes
is tight for me. The fear of some pain
is a captivity! The years
have been hunting us! The traps of dreams
are full of strangers’ ones, as well as of the Moon,
it’s pregnant not with us, while in the heat of days
you rave about me, awakened baby, secretly caressing
with smileys, funny dialects so sweet,
a jam of words from magic of the roots –
oh, what a catch in pagan Latin’s basket
of boring days! So, Love Divine the nurse
is trembling at the messages, in which,
forgetting Heavens, Truth and Fatherland,
the Destiny of Worlds, Her darkest Highness,
curves grimaces – resists Cyrillic alphabet.
Look at the bottom of the bottomless inkwell,
the prophecies are blooming violets, dropped by
the persecuted – always! – fortune-tellers
at breaking of the Matrix string, when once
a worm from Book of Genesis has whispered,
that country’s name contains both G and R,
my dreams and me of still the same
waist, hairdress…  God knows, here even brothers
aren’t welcome any more, the swords are crossed…
Let bards take Arbat into a barre chord,
Bulgaria and Germany already are bequeathed,
vivat, Wolf King, vivat,
but in the solar spin inertia, as it is,
I’m waited for by ghostly empty pier
with the alarm bell of the waves of Ancient Greece.

July 12, 2023


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