Without the homeland.Thousands of thin needles penetrate my unprotected skin. They get angrily, deeply, to the heart, inflicting on me physical and moral suffering - I do not know what is more, and remain in me, I do not know as for a long time. The grown dumb fingers - icicles I touch as if not the weather-beaten face, I take on thinned, eternally beaten by a cap, to hair, empty eye-sockets, with all nevyplakanny tears, peering into others indifferent sky - a mirror which reflects a big piece of my present life: the small cold house, the broad, covered with a thick cover of snow expanse, foreign people going along a snow-covered field, but in this specular reflection I as I peer, cannot make out myself, probably, just because I am not there, I am absent I am not here.
A where I? Where I? I can in the near and remote past where my fingers were long and hot how at the pianist - the virtuoso where my person was fine, and people liked to look at it? They looked at my person, on my dense, touching strong shoulders, a blond hair, at my long slender fingers, and joyfully laughed because it made them happy, and they wanted to fly. Their eyes shone kindness and understanding, they loved me.
my eyes were bright and expressive, colors of a sea wave, in them was slightly a sneer and irony, but not evil irony, but kind, full love of irony to people, animals, houses, trees, flowers
my gait was easy and carefree as flight of an autumn leaf, borne an easy rush of young wind through the twilight thrown park, vozdushna steps as the shy moonlight falling through inflorescences of a white lilac in warm May evening, a voice is ringing as the first shy peal of a bolt from the blue
Ya hasty I run in a door not of the cold house and hasty I slam behind myself not the heavy door. Then I heat not the old furnace and I fry potato which distracts me from my gloomy thoughts for some time. In the house it is awfully cold and it very irritates me because I hate cold, and I should freeze almost all the time. I take
Ya a notebook and I write nobody the necessary verses, long squeezeing out words and rhymes which first to me seem banal, then ingenious, then just good, and in the end I hate all this and I want to throw out simply in the furnace. Why I write them? To whom and what I want to prove? To whom is it necessary? Then I suddenly understand that I create them for myself that I have to write them only for myself, write extremely sincerely and frankly, without trying to be pleasant to someone, not to try to correspond to someone`s windy tastes and opinions, desires and templates, styles and currents, that betraying itself, the thoughts, the talent, and, having understood all this, it becomes suddenly easier for me. I take the handle again and I write
my present - as this field powdered with snow. Dead, cold and unfriendly. All life left it, vysochitsya, turned into dead ice and snow. It had only memory, the bitter, eternally tormenting him memory of the days which left that once in it there was life, on it tart and fragrant herbs eared, over herbs hardworking bees curled, and loud-voiced larks were in the air. The cool rain refreshed its fertile soils, the warm sun warmed them gold beams, warm wind caressed it every evening. But all this in the past. And present The present is my weather-beaten face, the fallen eye-sockets with the dead eyes looking as if in itself, the grown dumb fingers - icicles, this others cold house, this others indifferent sky without sun signs, this dead snow-covered field. My present is a lonely naked willow at the chilled ravine, it is the zaindevely cold wood in a blue haze of ice morning, it is pack of the loud crows who are rushing about in the lead sky Past and present. Present and past. Them. Another in to connect, not to join, not to pour in one in any way yet as ice and fire.
Boat and violin
to Mora. A red sphere of slowly dying sun. The sunset sky in fancy clouds - metamorphoses. Whiffs. Lonely boat. Small, with the overturned sail. Salty waves of storm to it is white ironed its ancient little body, severe sea winds ruthlessly tore a sail. With the last bit of strength solar needles from gold through pierce the salted, defenseless canvas, and are scattered on thousands of bright diamonds, leaving the delightful road from sea air and light which conducts directly on the sky.
Cries a violin. Sobs violently, but it is silent, on - Jewish. Cries about the love lost forever, about irrevocably left youth, about the left native earth with its dazzling blue sky without uniform cloudlet, with its sweet hot bread, with her kind simple people Ah, as she cries! Its sounds flow in the heart while it is more vulnerable than everything when it flung away from itself armor of indifference and pretense, greed and hypocrisy, and it begins to cry together with a violin, persistently driving to the dried-up throat
Friday. 16:00. Until the end of the working day one hour. Behind a window dirty snow. The habitual working situation reigns in office. Roar of voices. Clang of printers and computer keyboards. Single shots of the closed door. Rustle of glossy magazines. Trite jokes. Bearded jokes. Gossips. Discussions for eyes. What to prepare for dinner and where to go. How to spend days off. Beauty is not happiness. Beauty or ugly creature. Again gossips. Chief of a trestle. Director miser. Kuznetsova from supply is pregnant. Bondarenko in an insole was drunk yesterday. Again gossips. The chief asked to prepare tea. Goat. The Kremlin diet is better Japanese. Kireevskaya has no taste at all. That is that is that is that is that is that . As I hate all of them
Ya - that small lonely boat. My sail is salted by seven seas and torn by thirty winds. My bottom became thinner, and sides became sloping from sea water. My Kiel in necklaces from sea cockleshells. I was kissed by the hot tropical sun and caressed a gentle moonlight. To me eternal seagulls - tramps sang the song of wanderings, and cheerful dolphins specified to me a way home. I talked to stars and breathed aroma of eternity. I heard breath of the Universe. Ah, as I lived as I lived
Ya - the sad lonely violin tearing heart to parts. My strings were torn more than once. My right side was absolutely wiped from touches of those who played on me. From cold, a sunlight and a rain the varnish on me cracked. On me salty sweat and bitter tears. On me warmly tired out human hands. On me traces of hopes and disappointments, love and hatred, pleasure and a grief. I am false a little, but almost nobody notices it because all are shaken by that feeling which is given rise tormently by my four old strings. I pay about days former, about what you will not return. I am a conductor between people and the sky the Working day is finished with
. I switch off the computer. The picture with the boat disappears, sounds of a violin cease. I put on a coat. I close a door. To me it is madly sad. I am lonely. I go home. Houses I will eat, sleep, watch TV again, to get drunk, swear at the wife, to feed a cat, to take out garbage, to bring up the daughter, I will go to work, to come from work, to ask myself eternal questions I know that in half an hour an image of the boat with music of a violin will disappear from my memory, having given way to more trivial problems. For it I almost hate myself. But the voice of reason says to me that it is necessary to live further. For now I hear divine game of an old violin and the proud small boat which talked to stars and heard breath of the Universe is always on the mind.