Judy

The living always get more than they’re given —
A drunk will taste the sweetest water’s heaven,
He’ll roam the streets, slip into some old tavern,
And by a voice will find a heart that’s shattered —
A wounded fate that sounds a lot like his.
And drinking two-by-two, it feels much warmer,
The pain turns dull, no sharpness, no disorder —
Just quiet days that gently flow and drift.

In some reality far off wakes Judy;
Inside her world no dreams come bright or moody.
She brews her coffee strong, the way she likes it,
And runs ten copies through her printer — likeness
Of her, from youth, when hope was still a bracelet
That softly held her wrist with light and graces,
When simple joy seemed close enough to chase it,
And nothing in her life felt doomed or faithless.

And on the other side of all creation,
That drunk will push apart the walls that cage him.
On throwaway white plates he draws a woman —
A face like Judy’s, fragile, kind and human.
His drinking friends — his jury and advisers —
Admire the shape, declare him born a master,
Raise up a toast to genius ever after.
Thus twine their fates in tender, tangled fibres.

She doesn’t know her copied face has entered
Another life and quietly shaped its center —
A gifted man, a humble barroom dreamer,
Inside a shabby tavern, half a hermit,
Found on a piece of single-use cheap paper
The only woman he could ever treasure —
The one and only, sketched as if by nature,
The one who looked, if barely, just like Judy.

© Valeriya Korennaya

Песня на английском здесь - youtu.be/7v7FaU6DayY