Copyright © 2010 by Lara Biyuts
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The snow began to fall suddenly and as a snowfall. At least it seemed to be so for the first half an hour, because from the heaven, chasing each other to meet the earth, roofs and me, the large snowflakes rushed--the pre-December white and cold kisses--and it was too late to call, imploring to put off the winter’s coming at least till tomorrow, for it had entered the town. Delightful. No fairy-tale like this sparking snow dust from the dreamlike patterned pillow, which somebody above plumps up now. The usual tenderness in my insides turns into vanilla ice-cream; the scraps of the coming winter powders my hair and eyelashes, lying down on my lips, and looking skywards for the last time they melt, being unable to accept another love but their own, crystalline and pale, being devoted to he who haughtily pours them in silence… I straighten my scarf and go slowly towards my house.
It’s not time for falling in love.
The street lamps nod and sigh: “One should keep patience…”
The pompous town cafes are crowded. Moscow glam and loads of tundra, or rather Moscow glam which is loads of tundra. You are sitting vis-à-vis, and you are too young, indecently young for me. I admire your large forehead, your beautiful nose, your chiseled chin and the curves of your lips. The curves of your lips can rewrite history. You are looking at me, and I can’t take a guess of what you think of me. You are strange and wonderful. I am thankful to the fate for the encounter that took place a short while back. You have plenty of merits, and the main is that you know answers to questions that I asked myself for years and that nobody could help me to answer. But you’ve come and answered all my questions. The candle-flame wavers, and in the flickering light the night looks yet more festive and special. You are here, and all the rest is no matter, or rather all the rest is but scenery.
The snowflakes whirl slowly outside the window, turning the night into a quiet holiday.
yellow and orange meditations
Snow stamped footprints,
what traveler has left you?
I watch the stars.
The blend of snow-flecks--
the snow as a tardy revenge to the summer obstreperous grass.
The whirl of snow-flecks--
a dreamlike wing, the plural of white non-existence.
The temper of the snow, the pain of the snow:
to dissect oneself in the sky to be forever one on the earth.
The time of the snow--
the cyclic fairy tale, the weird mist of roads, hardly comprehensible.
The sadness of the snow
begun from sources and learnt by heart.
The call of the snow--
the winter’s touches falling from the dark to my craving hand.