Sunday Hindsight Diaries. Nastya Fall

      a dull, murky evening

      and the western wind

      is shaking the fir tree branches.

      your shoulders you’re wrapping,

      no sun – only candles,

      a lantern light that is tarnished.

      the cold of the manor,

      the foretoken’s banner

      clenches my shivering chest.

      who’s wandering by night?

      what’s happening here right?

      is here where my path is best?

      never-the-loneliness,

      nevertheless.

      i can still see myself in that white dress,

      sun in the mirrors with rainbows in sand,

      silently telling me it will not end.

      blueprints of sky on my permanent walls,

      milk-dipped silk edges of cloudy crème rose,

      roughness and tightness of arms around me,

      silently telling i’ll never be free.

      counting the hours and reading the lips,

      fighting your demons with my false beliefs,

      perching the window to see that, out there

      no one can actually understand? care?

      salty in solitude, waves crawl aside.

      going away, you think i wouldn’t mind

      stopping you? leaving you? living alone?

      isn’t it late to return what i own?

      coastline is softened by dimmed lilac haze,

      all through my head – your indifferent gaze.

      resting my soul in the sea – i’m a mess.

      never-the-loneliness,

      nevertheless.

      he hypnotised crowds with a flick of the wrist,

      created the art just by moving his lips.

      and, vividly dreaming, he poured out his song

      to tremble, to hope and to whisper along.

      his infinite star shone above from the stage,

      he wasn’t afraid of appearing strange.

      though somebody claimed of him being moonstruck,

      it wasn’t in his style to give it a fuck.

      he was like a lightning. a flash – and he’s gone.

      a seeker, a poet, who rode on the storm.

      and history doesn’t forget all the vows

      of beads, lizard kings and soft tambourine sounds.

      and through the nightshades of paris

      a caravan carried the pain.

      he closed the doors of perception

      behind him when he went away.

      deserted bedrooms. a silent hall.

      darkness. short beeps. a telephone call.

      now it is you who is always not home.

      you’re mourning. you’re weeping

      behind the wall.

      you’re crawling and creeping through fears and tears.

      you’re bleeding, receding; the blood you smear

      on bricks will deliver your dream to those,

      who’ll stand on the ruins of virgin walls.

      you shiver and quiver from deadly cold.

      the crumbs you are picking once made up your world.

      your past on the left, your thoughts on the right.

      from hell – to heaven, from darkness – to light.

      you nourish your pain with a rapture of mad.

      because every coat, every line, brick – it had

      a story, so pure in its manic dismay.

      too frightened to leave and too tired to stay.

      you take a deep breath and look over your life:

      your father, your mother, your band and your wife.

      now it doesn’t matter, cause you are alone.

      and fortune is telling you:

      «bring down the wall!»

      to kill all you love is most frequently

      the only known way to be free.

      come right to me, relieve my pain, don’t let me go.

      refine my shrine and watch it burn, in sorrow known.

      humiliate, humidify, relapsing «why?»,

      retire tears, collect your things and leave behind.

      heal up my soul, demolish yours, we are aware:

      you never ask, i never tell that i still care.

      your tender step i will confirm beside my door.

      my sunshine, please