My shaky house -
My willow vine
Sways on the brittle pin of the wind.
Fog - a window,
And a draft of time
Washes the decrepit dome with a hiss.
Objects float.
In them - an ancient meaning:
To soften the steel clamps of loneliness.
I can barely discern their outline,
But full of hops
Golden-wool buds.
And in the deep, dawn words
Space pulsates like a button,
And in the warm fingers
Of the thickened spinnerets
Meaning is woven
The high decoration.
I do not grieve.
I have to choose -
Crumbs worm around the native nest.
I do not call my mother an affection.
I run to save a drop of the saint
Feelings...
My fragile home, -
My holiday
Of alienation of freedom,
And the jaw of light,
And the violin groan,
And the ghost of the defeat of nations...
1985
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My shaky house
© Copyright: Сергей Муценко Избранное, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125071402091
Свидетельство о публикации №125071402091
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