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