шепіт вечірній

світлом настільним

сумом натільним

дихає вільно


а колискова


словом малює

усе, що почує


тихо на стінах

колишуться тіні

чорним і срібним

щоб спалося мирно






The Dead Leaf

Who thinks about dead leaves when the spring comes? The forest just wakes up from three months of a frozen silence. It wakes up naked but never ashamed of its natural beauty, and tries to remember words it used to know before the first snow came. It faces the spring sun and covers itself with flowers as a special kind of freckles.

“Hello.” The Forest stretches its branches to the blue morning sky. “Hello,” The Shining Sun answers back. I’ve heard their dialogue while standing right in the middle of The Forest. It allowed me to walk through its heart.

“I missed you”

Wait, what? I stopped for a moment. The Forest held its branches back and became silent. The Sun hid it’s face into a curly cloud. Who’s here talking to me? I kept walking faster.

“I missed you”

“I missed you”

“I missed you”

“I missed you”

I looked around. The Forest became silent again. “Here.” I looked down at the ground. There, in the very heart of The Beautiful Forest I saw dead leaves, buried by numbness of time. “This is how much I missed you.” The Forest whispered with a dead leaf on a young branch. A stream of light pierced the leaf, and I saw 16 stories The Forest wrote there while dying missing The Sun. “This is how much I missed you”.

Who thinks about dead leaves when the spring comes? The wind blew away the dead leaf and weaved it into the carpet of other forgotten leaves. The Sun started to cry with sparkling raindrops. “Here.” I looked down at the ground. There, in the very heart of The Beautiful Forest I saw a naive green Sprout, pushing aside dead stories of the past winter. “This is how much I missed you,” smiled The Sun through tears.

Dead Man

He died two days before my very first day of life. Instead of two eyes he had two blue bottomless lakes, each of them hiding its own tamed sun. He never had enough, as long as he had a tiny black hole inside of his heart, which made him feel eternal hunger. That’s why he was dying. He was almost 87 when I heard his tired whisper: “Ah, I am so hungry”.

I wish I could hold his hand and kiss his old cheek, but I wasn’t born yet.

There was a fly on the wall. He knew.

He had seen so many things in this life, but he never found the most important thing. Something he had missed in his lifetime. He had his own house, but he never had a home. He wrote thousand of stories but he never wrote a book, his own book. He used to touch soft and beautiful skin. He used to observe falling stars in the night. But he never knew how to talk without words, and he never had his own constellation in the sky.

By that time his walls were covered with flies. They made him even more tired. He deeply breathed in and out – “Bye”. “Bye” – I whispered, watching him leaving. His eyes became young for a moment- “Who’s there?” Me.

He died when he was almost 87.

Two days later, on the 24th of March, I was born into this restless world.