Philosophy of Love. V. Speys

      Butterfly flew into the window.

      And beating in it, knocking on the glass.

      Why rush her, because it is durable

      And a century to him from the wings does not open.

      Why strive for space,

      Through a solid transparent barrier.

      Isn’t it better to just settle your argument?

      Finding in inaction delight.

      Dream and believe in the best moment,

      When the window itself suddenly opens.

      In that near and far world,

      In which you lived and crave to find yourself.

      But all the same wonderful world of the glass.

      The window itself will not open.

      And the butterfly prefers to fall afterwards,

      Now continues to fight!

      Poplar

      He was tall and slim and powerful.

      Dropped foliage in the fall at times.

      The spring ray caressed him warmly.

      In winter, the crown was covered with snow.

      He was a lighthouse in the distance.

      As an obelisk was visible a mile away from the village.

      And, flying past, cranes:

      – Kurly! Kurly! – Shouted in his honor.

      Sometimes we boast with childish pride:

      – A hundred years to him! And it will be a hundred to stand!

      But a pile of firewood suddenly appeared.

      — And where is the poplar?! – Children do not understand.

      Early Autumn

      Amber spilled over the foliage,

      The trunks of the oak forests are blacker.

      Transparent air. In the blue

      The forest appears, and the distance is more visible.

      And the yellow leaf trembles in the branches.

      A gray crown, freezing’s birds.

      Crown of trees covered frost.

      Will warm, when spring comes.

      The call sign with the name Romantic

      The girl with beautiful eyes.

      Looks from the depths of worlds.

      Searches in the of a call sign at night,

      Ray of his at the name Romantic.

      There in the conglomerates, the placers of galaxies,

      Where is this Earth there?

      A call sign named Romantic,

      Radio wave bears call…

      He lives there with blue eyes,

      What looks to the height with hope?

      In search of a constellation, in the evenings,

      Sends you Earthly silence.

      The smell of honey herbs spring,

      Light wind – kiss,

      The leaves of the Earth’s forests in autumn,

      And a wreath of rainy summer jets.

      Olessya

      Like a rare fairy tale, “Olessya!”

      Sounds above the river, “Olessya!”

      And in the sounds of the mysterious forest

      I hear the name, Olessya.

      In the singing brook is given.

      And a song pours over the lake.

      Over green grass and foliage:

      “… Stay, stay with me…”

      “… Olessya, Olessya, Olessya,

      You look like violets of the forest …”

      A bottomless resinous river

      Hair waterfall veil

      Falls on girlish shoulders,

      Coquettish bang splashes

      And covers his forehead with him.

      “… Stay, stay with me…”

      I hear in the sounds of spring

      And the birds are spread by singing:

      “… Olessya, Olessya, Olessya.

      Like a fairy tale, like a miracle, like a song …”

      To climb a frosty strand

      A frosty strand

      Early Autumn gray.

      Memories, lake surface,

      Spring comes up to me.

      I look into her blue eyes

      On a colorful wreath of hair.

      Nightingales see nights

      Among the interwoven heavy braids.

      And whitens frosty strand

      Memory of the night, farewell to that.

      Floating above the dark surface

      In the hair, gray strands.

      Paradise

      I love those drunk nights,

      What is inhale with the aroma of silence.

      And the grass in the meadows is thick,

      And on the lake reeds.

      Everything is familiar in the home side,

      There the singing spring is noisy.

      Then you went down the path

      The look me, as now, beckons.

      I forget you, you know, not in power,

      Blue eyed tale me.

      And the glade that I often see

      There in our birch paradise.

      I would forget this garden spring,

      What do you remember with your color?

      The roar of bees, the aroma of healing,

      And your sparkling look.

      I would forget this first autumn,

      What broke my love.

      Only memory has become gray,

      I recognize you and myself in it paradise.

      In a fit of a timid fairy tale Spring

      Reddish