You very long peer at her eyes.
Peer at her eyes, which begin lackluster. Eyes, which get a senile cloud, and that is why pour wave of pity and stirring fault.
She is silent.
And her silence keeps very much.
There are partings and meetings, partings and remembering, again meetings, only rare and rare, confusing excuses, and partings again in her silence.
She can keep a pause.
She can wait.
You everyday are sucked in by quagmire of small and urgent problems. You run in search of daily bread, daily bread for yourself – for children, for children - for yourself.
And only by evenings, when the bird colony of small passions calms down, you look at the cold disk of the tired sun with a sacred trembling and pray.
You pray to All-good, to All-seeing, to All-forgiving.
A cramp twists your face is crumpled by time. Now you are still, and you cry, looking on the sun trace.
You cry, whining like a punished puppy. You face is twisted and tormented by fears. Those are fears, which come back from your childhood.
It is the fear of loss.
It is the fear of void.
It is the fear of solitude under the stars dumbness.
For her. For farther.
For farther. For her…
You stop, when the night licks you by rough and cool language.
It is named your life.
Every morning the sun is born in your heart. The sun is born likes a bud in cold blood.
Translated by Alexander Pryazhnikov