TCHAIKOVSKY. ALBUM OP.72
When times are meeting with each other,
There is a special measure of the air,
It is a sediment, transparent mica,
The chimera which has shown its jaw.
Duration doesn't apply to it, it's always with you,
As a vital line of a palm.
Inside it, all fine moments
Rise in layers, stand as a wall, hardened to pain. And eternal,
Every minute there are those, who are alive, and those,
Who're dead and will ever die of course, -
At the same time existing in vanity
Of the uncountable worlds, connecting everything:
Histories, Eras, Enlightenments
In one substance, in a wide strip
Of a simple everyday concern.
Concern being, why and how
Events happen and lives
Come true as a dancing step,
Assigned on a continuous funeral feast,
Which is destiny,
Slightly slightly opening our eyelashes
And giving sight sometimes
Some moments prior to the border.
For this instant I will give voices,
Calling to go to the beginning
Of everyone and everything, having left
Gray-haired poles behind my back. And, tired,
For this instance I'll give my voice,
Which is singing gradually in nature's sounding
And, swinging an illusive head,
I'll disappear in a cold universe.
II. Cradle Song
Fall asleep and forget of all things on Earth
Let branches embrace you with waves
Let rivers flare with live flowers,
Merging in a haze.
III. Tender Reproaches
There is no way to love
The languorous talk over life.
Its shackles inviolable,
As a goddess’ glare, cautiously
(Instead of happiness, probably)
Will alter human’s glare.
IV. Character Dance
Hearing the surf of
Beating in steel
You can’t go through
Not losing a
Eye can not
That which calls
In a long day’s
You’re watching people and you see
Their eyes, black and blue,
The rustling of their wrinkles, charm
Of their sleek cheek-bones, heavy air
In their hair, a care
In their movements
And, slow in them,
VI. Mazurka for Dancing
Lovely movement of thoughts
Is a keen shaft of a spear.
It will entertain an imagination
With inexcusable ease.
VII. Concert Polonaise
Oh, prophetic syllables of words!
How their viscosity is captivating!
Their fleeting melodiousness
Is merging hundreds of voices.
And perspectives of the cities
Are hurrying to open promptly,
Where ray of serene thought to glimmer
In a heap of minds.
Don't speak, but think of me –
Let silence gild the thought.
Faces on ancient sculptures
For centuries talk out of
Names and fluctuations of air forms –
Times’ mediators and guardsmen.
The sounding syllable is doomed to thaw
Behind backs of ingenuous brethren,
But your thought is as a sleeping grain,
Perceptible to only fixed eye,
To which, in spite of destiny and fate,
Human’s oblivion isn't given.
IX. A bit of Schumann
I don't know vanity, though infinity
Of a hundred thousand thoughts do warm my mind.
I don't know emptiness, but a stream of air
Flies through the threshold of the window.
I don't know time, but I do feel it -
Air emptiness’ brilliant grain.
Exhausted with the horror of the end of not eternal life
And blinded by the light of own eyes. Awoken,
Put into ignorance while expecting
Those signs that called presages, and crushed
With greatness of the nature.
Thank you goodness!
Through long shadow of lamps,
Under warm light of their fires,
Over silhouettes of people,
As a whisper of joyful speeches
Flickers, slowly flying,
Whistling by a silky blizzard,
Joking on a silence of hills,
Spinning eternal patterns
As the run of life.
As a run, captivatingly simple,
As a ray of a golden comet,
As a wild wind of time,
As a sign of that shrillness,
Which has been forever.
XII. Prankish Girl
I am observing an eye’s pupil,
Which starts expanding,
Rushing about in the darkness, as a butterfly,
And I am catching it with a net.
As if in that, in you
I look for a pupil of torpor
In rare minutes of languor,
Belonging to myself.
XIII. Rustic Echo
Behind the head turn - is deception. But
Even if that was strange,
In a foggy imagination
Remember - it’s a dream.
You won't notice that, exclaiming
In confusion when, flickering,
Coastal tight water
Will touch crowns’ tops.
XIV. Elegiac Song
I love you with the same fidelity,
With which I sing the note “do” anytime,
Having pulled it in mind as a string, as an arrow. As inoculation
Having it since childhood, in spite of nature
And of seductive human breed.
I love you with the same force with which comes the evening –
Moves with the sky, rustles with branches, shivers winds
And attracts with supernatural gifts
In the night playing soccer by the moon
And tempting time behind your shoulders.
I love you with the same passion, with which voice stupefies with its timbre.
… And, infinite, happens the fairy tale
Of whistling, as under runners,
Air – speckled by your pointer
XV. A bit of Chopin
...And he lived as in game, crackling a symbolic cane
Predicting good luck to all and struggling with wasteful malice
From a rainy love to somewhere lost hope
Expelling from himself the last belief of ignoramus
He again and again flew over the mysterious cuckoo’s house
Being surprised with a crystal jingle and a call of the little coin
And, extracting years from days, gazed around, fatigue
When would find again, that got back to beginning.
XVI. Quintuple Waltz
Quintuple waltz is a mask,
But who’s its hero?
If this Tiresias is tender,
He rules sway of your destiny.
He is laughing, he tells fortunes
And with a wizard smile
He carelessly scatters
Lives of every blind man.
XVII. Distant past
As an unknown world, as mirage irretrievable and transparent
So is the distant past here, in the palm’s middle.
XVIII. Invitation for the dance. Trepak
Now – only dance, as only here
Lost measure of time remains –
As slowly burning sphere
Incinerated by the inner fire.
© Asiya Korepanova