Signals from the moon. Poems and stories. Ольга Макарова
ne wanderer in the desert, roaming from oasis to oasis and city to city. There, he meets people, listens to their stories, possibly becomes part of them, replenishes supplies, and sets off again. While he walks alone, he thinks a lot. And he learns. When he gets to the next city, maybe he also has a story to tell.
Need for Appreciation
Lonely Lovesong walks the streets,
Giving smiles to those she meets,
Mutely plays an old guitar,
You might hear it from afar.
Unafraid of getting lost,
To the rhythm she likes the most,
As if having one more chance,
Lonely Lovesong learns to dance.
Conditional Empathy
Black blind kitten.
Dirty spring street.
Wet ears listen
To approaching feet,
Ready for next hit.
One more sound
You already know,
Frightening and loud,
Out of the flow -
Angry cawing crow.
Cold paws quiver.
Why are you still here?
Danger comes nearer.
You should beat your fear.
You should run, my dear!
Run, run, baby!
Anywhere away!
You are weak and shabby,
It's unsafe to stay.
You won't die today!
Desired or Deserved
I live like I'm riding a bike,
And my speed is lower than ever.
But what could my life be like
If I were a little braver?
Like a river with turbulent flow –
Quintessence of passion and danger.
I want it – to let my brain know
A new highest level of pleasure.
Like a snow-covered mountain peak -
Elusive, but so much desired.
I want it – to let my heart speak
Of calmness and love inside it.
I'm not used to ups and downs,
But feel like I really need them.
I want it – to fill my lungs
With breathtaking wind of freedom.
The Key
So the day came when I decided to leave my home.
Was it really mine? Yes, perhaps. Forcedly, temporarily – again, as always, but it was still my home.
I froze, standing at the open door to the hallway. The doorway was low. Being tall, I always had to bend down so as not to hit my forehead. This movement had long been familiar and intuitive, but at that moment my body seemed to have lost its muscle memory. I fell into a stupor, realizing that this would be the last time I would have to use this skill.
Something made me turn around and look out the window. Nothing could be seen but a wire fence and several raspberry bushes. On the windowsill stood an old radio and a candle stub in a tin. The hammer, my father's razor, the dried and cracked bar of soap, everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. They seemed to be out of time, having become part of a story that one day someone will have to tell. I so wanted to take them with me. Or maybe even the whole house. Just to fold it like a children's pop-up book and put it in my backpack.
My eyes fell on the furnace. The cast-iron door was open, as if suggesting that I fetch wood and start a fire. But winter was still far away. “Maybe you could at least sit down for a smoke one last time?” As if I had actually heard the question, I rummaged through my pockets, but found no cigarettes, and I felt guilty.
That's it. Enough. Get away. It's time.
Having taken the last bow, I confidently stepped into the hallway. One of the iron plates covering the gaps between the planks in the floor creaked under my boot. This sound, like a helpless groan choked on a stifled sob, echoed with pain in my chest. I quickly walked across the yard, trying not to look around, with a strange feeling that someone might try to grab me, detain me. Finally, when I got outside the gate, I turned the key twice in the keyhole and slipped it into my pocket. No, this burden will be too heavy. The small piece of metal, warmed by my hand, fell into the mailbox with a clang. I realized that from now on, my heart would always miss the warmth I had imparted to this key.
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