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I. Impromptu


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 


Just once. 


V. Meditation 

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, 

Death’s movement. 

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. 



VIII. Dialogue 

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. 



X. Scherzo-Fantasy 

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! 



XI. Waltz-bagatelle


Through long shadow of lamps, 

Under warm light of their fires, 

Over silhouettes of people, 

As a whisper of joyful speeches 

Snow flickers. 

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 

And caress. 


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

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