*To Writer*
From Irony, an alien planet, to our Earth
you have arrived in shape of lilac pollen
and come into full blossom veiling ponds.
All our human dreams, ideas, pains,
these shaky earthly shades have come to life
with that the only whiff of lilacs,
which filled the gardens and the minds.
Oh in this alien aroma we can see
all earthly platitude,
all silliness and fibs get withered.
Brought by a cosmic concordance,
the lilacs of your planet are a good
and extraordinary property for us:
the fragrance robs the life of smell of nonsense.
Lara Biuts © 2009
*The Autumn Wind Ritual*
“Naked,
the trees quiver, branches down.
In vain,
Dionysus pours his sparkling juice.” (Grail Arrelsky)
*The Ancient Mists of Love*
I.
Like a grayish invisible cloud,
like unshed rains,
the mist of your killed desires
covers all over the Vanity Land. Overhead.
And the cloud strangles.
Ashes of reservations, stultified vows--
like a grayish invisible cloud.
Will it shed rain some day? Overhead.
But the soul is attached
to its killed desires.
Their deadly captivity is felt
like invisible fetters over your body,
like a grayish invisible cloud overhead.
II.
The brash of the sky in the gloomy pools.
The pieces of summer underfoot.
A pen-and-ink above, on the silvery gray amalgam.
Orphaned branches dance to the sound of the wind’s saxophone.
The translucent trees celebrate their widowhood.
Dead leaves shine brighter than inlay--
pieces of summer underfoot.
I step over them. And you?
Can you step over me?
On the sly, with a chill,
badly,
doubt punches in the guts.
III.
Morning. Two coffees. The empty apartment.
It’s empty, since nobody to breathe,
and I suffocate.
I raise the thinnest layer of the present “Without”
from the past “With”. The ecstasy-with-you.
It’s always here. Yours echoes mine.
It’s ours, deep in us, it stirs.
And every exaltation like the first. We don’t get used to it.
I’m ready and I taste the salt of your white skin.
The phantom of the tenderness and echo of the Words
soaring around.
I gulp the air of the past.
My coffee’s getting cool, and I am late.
Confound it.
Confound it all.
I recollect.
Lara Biuts © 2009
*Why?*
Why was it broken? The crystal panoply.
It was not a lie for a low fun. So difficult to live without a skin.
That wondrous armour lent you presence.
Oh why did it become a hindrance?
Was it so necessary to break your soul’s crystal panoply?
The truth’s worn-out cloak can turn into a tunic of a hero.
The pieces of the armour and the rents.
It’s difficult to recognize the prince.
Why was it broken? The crystal panoply.
Lara Biuts © 2009
*Never*
The letter. I'll open it to see the chilling lines,
unfriendly and aloof like statues in the autumn outside.
I open it and look through
the white leaves.
The afterglow is fading in the lake. Oh summer evenings...
My shelter never heard the beloved voice.
Lara Biuts © 2009
(dedicated to Oscar Wilde's birthday on the 16th of October)
*new photo album*
My new photo album Autumn 2009 is updated. More pictures of public gardens and shady boulevards in the city, where I live--
http://cid-ac0c01aafd56c514.skydrive.live.com/embedalbum.aspx/autumn%202009
