Big Friendly Letters (friendlyletters) wrote,
Big Friendly Letters


Хранится у меня в компе множество записей непонятного жанра и предназначения - вернее, предназначение понятно: для себя, чтобы не разорвало, но что-то в последнее время это всё, даже просто лёжа на жёстком диске, меня, как бы это сказать, душит и просится во внешнюю среду. Внешняя среда - это здесь, где же ещё. Предупреждаю: будет мрачно и невнятно, ни месседжа, ни морали. К тому же в основном по-английски - такие вот причуды. Но что выросло - то выросло.

I will forever be catching up with what I didn’t have time to share and what I left behind – not of my own will, but as those whose boat is on the running stream. Music, autumns and summers that have been, and the strangest of all – a spring that some will never see. Going back I will see again what I used to see: a huge sky and wide water bathed in blinding gold and salmon pink, a path – gray in the daylight, but now softly glittering with gold in the sunset – going straight into the westering sun, long shadows cast by people who walk in front of me as if heading right into this melting sky, and above the path – scores of dragonflies flying low, now and then pausing and vibrating in the same place in the air, and we lift our hands with a pointed forefinger in the hope that they will settle on it at least for a second. When I look at them from below they are of their usual colors, red and yellow, and their wings are transparent and laced with fine, intricately woven black lines seen very distinctly against the deepening purplish-blue dome right above my head. But when I look straight ahead into the west I cannot see their slender bodies any more, only their wings that seem to catch fire in the sunset. And then there are no dragonflies any longer, only liquid sparkling gold flooding the air, only living and dancing specks of the wild sun that are parts of the flaming sky, and their freedom is my freedom, and there are no chains on my soul yet, and I have all I need right around me, and the world is absolutely whole – so whole that I don’t even realize this wholeness yet – and everything is not only as it should be – it cannot be any other way. I
know no other way. Постороннему показалось бы, что на эту картину положено слишком много (сусального) золота, но это неправда. Правда – золотой свет, который я вижу, и время, в котором всё так, как должно быть, и будет всегда, и будет снова.
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