Copyright © 2010 by Lara Biyuts
yellow and orange meditations
Snow stamped footprints,
what traveler has left you?
I watch the stars.
The blend of snow-flecks--
snow as a tardy revenge to the obstreperous grass of summer.
The whirl of snow-flecks--
a dreamlike wing, the plural of white non-existence.
The temper of the snow, the pain from the snow--
to dissect oneself in the sky to be forever one on the earth.
The time of snow--
the cyclic fairy tale, snowy roads, weird mist, hardly comprehensible.
The sadness of snow
beginning from sources and learnt by heart.
The call of snow--
the winter’s soft touches falling from the dark to my craving hand.
the sun and the frost
The sun plays sparkling
in the branchy antlers,
The snow under the hoof.
The fur is sunshine-saturated.
The steamy breath curls skywards.
The green fir-trees dance in a ring;
the blue skys whirl above.
The Mouse King has left me.
What a pity.
The pompous carnival,
which we participate,
performs another play,
and it’s so witty,
but it’s not one of things,
which I anticipate.
to Oscar Wilde
Your rhymes destroy my common sense.
I want to give my sighs to you.
Why did they place us at the two
If only but a great expanse
were the abyss that parted our lives,
and not the times, glamorously undying--
the snow, the ground and the dreams
were common, in this case,
for you and me, and I had earthly way