Run from truth.
With equal measure
Of fear and trembling.
These sultry springs want to listen;
Typically, they are the last to be forsaken.
Enter into the chalice of abandoned wonderment
And cast this broken flower amid the ruins.
You will remember the limp crow
That strained to bid you good night,
And the brief turbulence
That gave multiple births
To illusions of villages
Unaware of the frowning circle
Patiently waiting to devour them.
And digest them,
Until each villager turns in upon himself,
And cowers in desolation.
His heart will be there for the borrowing,
For lusty hands to fill
A hatchet-shaped hole in the ventricle,
That it may smile again,
Truth sits in a wretched dacha
Just beyond this darkness,
Sipping on lukewarm tea
Punctuated with sweet bits of brimstone.
A black feather courses in the window,
Searching for nothing.
A piece of leafless stalk binds it from the rear,
And keeps it from blowing away
Art: “Impression on Franz Schubert’s ‘Die Winterreise'”
By the exceptionally talented Anna Pronskaya