Signals from the moon. Poet’s diary. Olga Makarova

      Love is an absolute thing.

      It doesn’t need reasons, proofs, satisfaction.

      The feeling of its presence is a necessary

      and sufficient condition.

      I didn’t bring flowers to your house.

      I’ve been leaving them on the trails you walk.

      I was so happy spelling your name in petals.

      I would like to know what you think about

      When you fall asleep

      To follow the threads of your thoughts

      Like a star map.

      When you close your eyes, but keep seeing,

      When you stop your body, but can’t stop your mind,

      Who hugs you?

      Instead of the singing of those

      Who love you,

      I wish you to hear the whisper of the one

      You love.

      The sun is so cruel,

      Kissing my face after yours,

      Making me feel

      The smell of your skin in its rays.

      If you go into a storm,

      Even with a lantern,

      Be ready to get lost.

      Don’t cut the flowers.

      With their beauty,

      They thank the earth, the sun and the rain.

      Let them finish their speech.

      I lost all of You,

      Never having

      Even a small part,

      But I found

      The rest of the world

      Without ever searching.

      Don’t be sad!

      Let this world

      Make us fly off the handle,

      Still we can fly

      Holding hands.

      Someone says they love me,

      But my heart went deaf,

      Screaming about love for you.

      I miss you like the wave misses the rocks.

      Each time rolling back,

      It only prepares

      To crash on them with new vigour.

      I met you like a beautiful dawn

      And I hit the road to unknown.

      No matter how long it will be,

      I know your sun will shine on me

      Until sunset.

      I have to silence my heart

      In order to let my mind speak.

      For wherever my heart aspires,

      Only my mind can show it the way.

      A yellowed leaf,

      Torn off in the morning

      By a cold autumn wind,

      By the evening

      Will no longer remember

      Which tree it fell from.