Без маски. Without a mask

Naively, I rushed
  to the party of aces,
exchanging the roles
  with the winds as top secret,
along the boulevards,
  where Eves shot the glances
and dropped their gloves
  like proposals to Adams.

I ran up at heartbeat,
  my smile was so childish,
on your glamour scaffold,
  the roof with an attic,
I knew, Death erases
  all boundaries, rather,
It means the beginning,
  a chance to get happy!

I rustled my wings,
  as if were for the last time,
while flying with hope,
  afraid of awaking,
dispelling the mists
  of desired fab visions,
and finding the space
  really emptied forever!

The gates with the steel locks
  were jingling, “Not Goya!”
an outcast of
  the bohemian circle,
I clung to the air,
  meanwhile in your windows
Cezannes, Van Goghs
  and some Gauguins were flashing.

Their masks cost much more
  than my heart of papyrus,
it had neither colors,
   nor false grace, nor makeup
to paint its immortal
   vibrations, the flow
invisible for
   your theatrical attic.

February 15, 2010