The void of betrayal

THE VOID OF BETRAYAL

There are times, there are days, when
A snowy wind will burst into the heart,
And no gentle voice,
Nor the serene hour of toil will save. . .
 –   A. Blok

It’s not easy to bear lightly:
tooth against tooth in the draft.

Aladdin rubs
in the snow-covered booth.

For a whole hour, he slid
from the roof of a house to the collapse

upon her –  onto the heap
to the hoarse pipe. . .

Two (or three) gulps of gin helped.
Inside, the gin trembled,

but remained silent
and did not moan. . .

He listened to the list of news,
grinding the burdock against the cracks of the glass.

(. . .)

 – My friend!
A web of threads – 

the ties of subtle reasons!
They can no longer be untangled by anyone. . .

May I remain silent:
neither to sever, nor to bind,

steam escaping,
like in Rasputin's bath?

(. . .)

A distant echo
of foreign voices. . .

 –   On "astral paths"
there are no addresses for Him?

Snow creaks on the glass,
like the screech of brakes.

In the receiver, a crackle:
mantras of the lightning of trams.

In parallel worlds
of ribcages, like fear,

snow coils,
and your voice melts away. . .