In the prison of art Ivory tower The Sassanids pass in the distance Helis and Stukas don’t notice us In the lonely fortress of beauty Scraps of words from unknown languages are being blown out of the Caucasus by the wind Into the ears and eyebags of dreams and intuition At the center of conflicting energies Pole fields tug at the substance Feet and bones burn Within the sacred limits of pure art Where even the lemon trees wither and radioactivity dominates the ideal concept of dividing pure creation What is lie here and what is the truth is still not clear And yet there are big bear faces here and fresh paw prints in the snow up by the forest There are Khikhvi here and wagtails and steppe rollers Every new crisis tears down concrete locks made by bad architects and poor planners – cement B37 Blue Jays chase each other, ravens Thoughts, poems, sketches, doubts Colours Gallantry Silence 3/6/2022
2022-03-06 10:44:48