I am (romance)
Blossoming apples
From far mist, from calm lakes beyond the commune’s hills comes a rustle: Maria is coming. I walk the endless fields, transiting the passes and where the burial mound, I am leaning on a lonely deserted cliff. I look into the distance. – Then one after the other, the thoughts are dancing around me, like Amazon girls. Everything disappears then…Mystery riders are flying, staggering rhythmically, towards the spurs, and the day is dying down; the road is running in graves and beyond it – silent steppe… I lift up my eyelashes and remember…truly my mother is an archetype of that incredible Maria, who stands on the verge of unknown ages. My mother is endless innocence, solemn sadness and infinite kindness. (So well do I remember it!). And my unbearable pain and my intolerable suffering are warming in the sacred candles before this ambrosial and sad vision.
Mother says that I (her restless son) have sorely tortured myself… And then I take her lovely head with the silver that covers her hair and silently put it on my chest… Beyond the window dewy mornings were coming and pearls were falling down. Incredible days were passing. Somewhere from far the dark forest made their way wanderers and by a blue well, where the roads flew apart, where a rogue crosses, they were stopped. A young tanning was it.
- And the nights are passing, the evenings are rustling by the poplars, the poplars are disappearing the highway endlessness and with them gone are my years, my blossoming youth. Then came the days of thunderstorms. There, beyond by a rapid bluish side, lightning is flashing and boiling, and mountains are foaming. Heavy, humid thunder cannot break through from India, from the south. And the nature is waiting for a storm. However, beyond the clouds you can hear another hum…deaf bombardment. Two storms are looming.
- Emergency! – Mother says she has watered mint today, the mint is dying in bewail. Mother says “Thunderstorm is coming!” And I see two crystal dewdrops shimmering in her eyes.
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Attack after attack. The hostile armies are clashing furiously. Our cavalry from the flank and then
flanks of insurgents go to counterattack, and thunder fulminating, and my thoughts – an impossibly
taut wire.
Nights and day I spend in “linchpin”.
Our apartments – fantastic palace: it’s the house of an executed nobleman. Chimeric hangings, ancient pictures, portraits of the prince’s surname. All this is looking at me from different sides of my accidental room.
Somewhere the army’s phone sings his sad and thrilling melody that reminds me of a far station ringing.
On the luxurious settee is sitting, with the legs tucked under himself, an armed tartar and chanting Asian: “Ala-la-la”.
