The dark alley of aquarius

  THE DARK ALLEY OF AQUARIUS

                "He is the stone rejected by you..."
                "And there is salvation in no one else..."
                (Acts 4:11)

Not silver ore. A handful of prickly white firn.
Measure time – pour it drop by drop, Aquarius.

The mist-thin curtain parts wider...
Pine branches sway over the sea – The Theater of Shadows.

These cliffs on stage are set by a mighty hand.
Pontus Euxinus sighs: wave after wave rolls in...

Crowds of waves, like actors, obey the cliffs in convoy,
and two-thirds don’t struggle to break into that marble hall.

Through the mist, Aquarius, squinting at gnarled pines,
sees how soundlessly February drips down their needles –

down to the blackened silver, where yesterday’s snowstorm
scattered prematurely bloomed wild almonds.

Here, spring comes in February. Only in some dread ages
does a "beard" sprout from the bristling wrinkles of these mountains...

The mountaintop grays at night... and old local Greeks,
shaking their heads, prophesy to each other: "Bora..."

In a day or two, snow whirls over black water.
By day, no one pays a penny for lodging anymore...

Like the local authorities once, in such a spring,
pressed bashlyks and peacoats into mud or crusted snow...

Like then, all alleys empty under volleys of battle.
Into the colonnade of rotundas – water, like cannonade surf.

The beast Boreas pelts roofs, flesh, pine needles with hail...
and howls, swinging the hanged – in aiguillettes on all wires.

Darkness – in empty icon frames. Windows – in black icon cases.
Starry beads – again, pearls scattered in every yard.

In hydrogen winter, behind Aquarius’ back, like Lot’s wife –
our white stone will frеeze under the salt in the sea snow . . .