Its getting harder to feel. Anything

Maybe an occasional minor chord …

He used to say, don’t spit in a well,

For one day we might all drink from it,

And now its just ashes and spit

And a horde of minor chord junkies

неба раскраска, от синего к сине-голубому

да и белая облаков маска, что таит,

о чем небо спорит, о чем ветер воет …

за годы въелась в сердце злость

и душу грызет, как собака кость

—————————————————————-

‘Скупцы’ вьют себе венцы.

свет, свинец, этот не заживет рубец.

идет палач, говорит не плач,

сердце пришел твое брать, волков кормить

they have not learned as yet to take that which is mine,

which calculates, supposes, contradicts, elicits pain,

insisting all the while life is fine,

which falls asleep, awakes amid a horrid lonely dream

filled with a flood, such sights unseen.

they have not learned as yet to take that which is mine,

that forward driving mind of mine

—————————————

This moves something in me …

Imperceptibly,

Шелест травы, переливание, летние купание света в этой зелени,

Шорох весенней листвы, the gentle swaying of the branches,

Heavenly whisper quite heaves,

Heavenly wisps of her hair carried in that same breeze,

Slow down the time, so, perhaps, it now stands still,

Something hypnotic distilled in the body and mind to forever and now