Polyhedron. HALF-WHISPER: The translation of poetic texts generates unexpected, and sometimes monstrous, meanings…

© Serge Moskalenko, 2018

ISBN 978-5-4493-2874-8

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

INTRO

The translation of poetic texts generates unexpected, and sometimes monstrous meanings…

THE WORLD WAS SUITABLE TO THE WITNESS

* * *

The world was like witchcraft.

It fell and again ascended

At unimaginable spaces.

Then, like a tree with foliage,

He dumped the ages in dew,

In which matured anxiety —

As if the ale with honey…

I KNOW, I WIT, I KNOW – REPEAT TEN TIME

* * *

I know, I wit, I know —

Repeat ten time.

Between words and knitting patterns

A connection is planned —

The triumph of escapes.

Pain. Healing ointment.

Past dragon’s teeth of buildings

The blood of the dawn was spilled. —

The carrying souls

On above-cloud bargaining.

By air roads

Beat following glory

At sails or wings —

What to be – to that be

But we just entered

At these waters of fate…

But we just found out

What same main us…

Past dragon’s teeth of buildings

The blood of the dawn was spilled.

ABOUT YOUR NAME, BREATHING ALREADY ON INCENSE, ON RICHED WALLS

* * *

About Your name, breathing already

On incense on charred walls

Drill holes in silence

At distant dreams of hungry sirens…

And freeze… And the night falls,

What has risen above the ground on cubit,

Giving all sleepless to get wet…

Part of speech is Autumn. The rain in the Universe…

SNAILS OF DREAMS. THEIR HOUSES ARE EMPTY…

* * *

Snails of dreams. Their houses are empty.

For a long time the vine is already free…

Cold gardens are covered with a haze.

And childish geek dragonfly

Not tingle over the morning soul.

No sparks of the sky – a faded look…

And at memory, pushing the hood,

A figure wanders about ways of loss …

Squeezing the staff with a wrinkled hand …

The words – as weights. But where without words? —

The crow’s tornado over the dull river

And low-low hum of bells…

THE TIME OF FAREWELLS. ON CLOCKS – THE APPLE SAVIOR

BUT PUDDLES IS WINDOWS IN HEAVEN

* * *

But puddles is windows in heaven. —

To step and sink.

And, come true, tired garden

Lazily pulls

Slow, cold smoke —

Gray strands.

And buffoon ice

At noisy spots

Braced for breathing breasts

Hills and logs.

And looks forward to a new work

Contractor of God.

And, busy next spring,

He cherishes the secret.

Green hand of mosses

Embrace the stones

And reflected in water.

Be silent and listen:

Horseshoe leaves and rain

Beat in puddles.

WHEN YOU’LL CLIMB HIGHER

* * *

When You’ll climb higher

Than all ceilings and estimates, —

The roofs will break off

And The Light will burst.

And, in spite of the breath, —

Breath, infinite breath, —

Frost of the Universe,

Ambergris, Heavenly Juice:

But look around from Light,

Finally, having become youself —

Falling down the planet

As cracked shell…

And, on it graves

The grass grows…

At forewings of wings

The head is spinning —

You are or someone new

Looks with excitement up…

Eternity and Chills —

Enough for all, for all…

So smile – and go at wind…

At the sky, in radiance, in laugh —

The Immortality

Enough for all, for all…

ONLY THE WIND IS MY MASTER NOW

* * *

Only the wind is my master now.

I’m flying along the channels of the asleep streets.

I have no one to share the path with anymore.

Only the wind, and a couple of companions:

Yearning and Pain, we are flying forward —

Where time is closing the eyelids. —

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