The Rainborn

Rustling, noisy, smashing leaves,
Rushing, tearing, howling breeze.
The wind wails low, and grass below
Rustles like a river’s flow.

Birds dart madly through the skies,
Beating wings with frantic cries.
Wide they spread to trap and keep
The breath of drafts that twist and sweep.

Nature stirs in wild parade,
Calling all to shift and fade.
Heavy drops fall through the haze,
Silver thunder, bloom and blaze.

Drumming raindrops crash and land,
Like a stormy marching band.
The world turns wild in roaring strain,
While children mutter: “Rain, rain, rain…

Go away,
Come again,
Another day…”

Then —
WHAM!
A hammer of rain smashes down,
A shriek, “Aaaaah!”, tears through the town.
Little feet scatter and slip on the ground,
As laughter and screams swirl all around.

Nature devours the space,
Drowning all other sounds.
It breaks through in roaring chase —
Until it all calms down.

25.04.2025

Странник

Шепчут старые кроссовки, об асфальт шурша,
В их подошвах застревает древняя земля.
От распутий, долгой трассы, стёрся на подошве
Тот узор, что был когда-то резкий и раскосый.

Шелестит походка шумно,
Как журавль об воду бьётся.
Я молю об остановке.
Только путь всё втискивьётся.

Серебрит песок неспешно,
Оседая в лужу.
Я кроссовками небрежно
Глажу и утюжу

Твердь земную, что застыла
Миллиарды лет.
Я иду и оставляю
След. След. След.

25.04.2025

Без хвоста

Тут только боги
И Эта собака без хвоста.
Она не виляет.
Ты знаешь,
Ей радость никогда не была дана.
Она способна подмечать лишь только боль.
И эти боги
Её сотворили такой.
19.04.2025

A Pen

There is a deep secret in the dark ink.
You write your name — it freezes in a blink.
You write your thoughts — they scatter, incomplete.
You write your feelings — they trap you in the heat.

The pen moves fast — you chase a fading dream.
It writes your story… yet you slip between.
As if you cast for meaning in your soul,
And reel in ghostly echoes — never whole.

The more you write, the more you feel the drift,
Like fish through nets — they shimmer, then they lift.
The page is full, and yet you know too well:
The deepest truths are those you cannot tell.

There is a secret resting in the ink.
The pen writes words, makes only their skin.
It bleeds, then dries, leaving a trace unsaid.
The pen writes words, but not the thing they meant.

19.04.2025

Like a Dinosaur

— Am I old? — I asked the youths.
— That depends. How old are you?
— Sixty-two.
— Then I guess you’re old. It’s true.
Have you seen old Lenin’s face?
— Of course. I stood beside him there,
On an armored car, in pride and grace,
Waving banners in the air.

I walk home like a dinosaur.
From the window Lena cries:
— Buy some apples from the market!
Check they have no bruised sides!

And suddenly, I’m young again,
A girl who cannot pick good fruit.
Lena’s ninety-six — and then,
Still thinks I’m young and cute.

The policeman shakes his head:
— Is Lena strong and still alive?
— Yes, — I nod. —  She’s not yet dead.
And marvel how we yet survive.

If you want to be young and bold,

And not feel like a dinosaur,

Be with slow and with the old —

Not just the age you fit before. 

11.04.2025

Crocus City Hall attack

«By the way, I love you», -
The last text written.

Read or unread?
Blood on the screen,
fingers stained red.
A crumpled ticket,
“Picnic” band.
A trembling hand—
could barely stand.
He sat in the hall,
his breath held tight.
The walls shone
in neon light.

they
entered / fire / shoot / attack /
violins screamed,
the ceiling cracked.
Rows of seats
fell into black.

And after 18 minutes - gone.
They left in a car,
sped into dust,
vanished too fast.

Blood ran dry,
dripped from his chest.
Crimson fingers
wrote the rest:
“By the way, I love you.”

His heart stopped
on March twenty-second,
but still 

beats
in her…
WhatsApp.
03.04.2024

On 22 March 2024, a coordinated terrorist attack against civilians, 145 deaths: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crocus_City_Hall_attack

Enchanted Trails

She came back from the forest, but the forest, it seems, did not come back from her.
She still hears its voice, echoing inside, ringing with a whispering whirr.
She closes her eyes and sees the trees, their veil-like trunks,
She still smells of herbs, fresh forest air, and pinewood husks.

She let the nectar of her hair flow in sparkling waterfalls,
Rushing in shimmering streams, as over her shoulders it falls,
Across her tender chest, down her graceful back, along her spine,
Coating her whole body in a glow that forever will shine.

She scattered laughter in the shimmer of silver bells,
Laughing with her head thrown back in deep, hidden dells,
Unconsciously, fully, surrendering with all her sincere grace,
And the sparks of her soul lit her face in a tender trace.

She lay on the ground - poppies bloomed beside her shoulders,
Filling them with scarlet light, reflected in her eyes, with amber-crimson smoulders…
A river ran over her legs, rustling its sweet, enchanting song,
Beckoning and dooming her into a dance wild, willful, strong.

She crossed the edge of the wood without turning back,
Unaware of how the forest whispered in her track.
She came back from the wood, but the forest, it seems, did not come back from her.
She still feels the trails - they pulse with a whispering whirr.

01.04.2025