In the garden of wolves

I’m digging in the garden of wolves and looking for a root of hope. To howl like them in my dark steps and bite with his big teethes- just for me. I’m planting the tulip of joy in the last wolf’s mouth- they are like children. They know how to love. I brush their hair; mix it with their last tear. Only they can understand why I do it. I am the wolf of spring and wear dark fate like a wolf. As mole digs the sun the sky. It searches rain took off running to the next morning. The earth is disturbed by the beaks of birds to germinate our new day. Loose soil smells of life and wind, and I trudge sadness on dark roads. The streets turn somewhere in the sky where the stars swing of the hair of the fate- that swarthy with fingers into my arm and dragging me to the joy. I long snowdrops to shout after me, tulips to cry in the rhythm of my soul, and one red poppy, which waited last summer to breathe in my hands until next winter. The violin shot silence with a cry and wine whispered stranger tongue. An old witch spins orb of life, and her brother- wolf is biting fate to blood. He doesn’t forgive her for the death of a small grape vine cut. Wine tastes bitter and the snow burns in eyes, and people passed wordless. They had not seen such a winter, when death and wine are intertwined with thundering dance and the whole pageant is melting in snowflakes black with sadness and bitterness. The scarlet liquid bitters and Carnival of Souls has become a holiday. The violin breaks with empty moan and silence comes with rags and the entire universal light bathes desperate people. When carnival of souls is coming the world is small as a walnut. I cut the space in nine languages- directions in which to go. But the world is small and as I do not have nine lives and will turn on at the first direct to the truth. Once upon a time the stars shone upon me and the frogs croaked on the way. Now I"m a rolling honey cake, bitten and gnawed to the bone. They faithfully and bones have life, but how different can you clench your breath in the bag. To have for later. For tomorrow. You suppress your voice and only the roar of tears remember that you are alive- until then, until tomorrow. Grit teeth. It will go away. Breathe with breast of winter. Watch with the eyes of owls. Speak with the voice of bears. Eventually you will find that the road to life, the minutes rolled in the hay of your last winter. A piece sun burnt by the harsh lips of wind dives in low and my dream blew up in lights. It was bright and light, I sank into the hands of stone to smooth wrinkles of eternity. Then young vestals sang about that unattainable vault of heaven, I prayed, pressed by the ghosts of silence, and in my dream I was a white river. I smoothed river stones of that incessant, stifled, eternal sadness. I marked by steps of birds and understood the voice of the oldest tortoise in the world. They told me about the tenth mountain shrank roots somewhere in the dark, searching me and my dark soul to merge with the cry of dandelions. Love falls on swathes love- this sad tale for Chiburashka biting the lips of winter to find confidence. Moon burn in contact with your lips and silver fox tail sweeps love. I will dream a blue wind wounded by palms and oceans of hope. I will wake horizon for love and sank in you. In the spring deer will bring those crumbs tenderness and the wolves will nibble at the throat of loneliness. They will bite the ground to the blood, and I will dream eager for passion orchids. I am innocent of walking on tiptoe rain, splashes of wind on the skin and the endless green grass in my eyes. I wring the hands of winter. I’m tired to pray. I want to be the last ball snow- snowman that will unlock the spring and threw his ragged snow heart on thorny bushes. No loneliness without name, no cry without hope. I"m nameless – a shy girl who breaks in unicorns and eats light. Messy me on the four directions- as dust, as ash. And thousands of roses will sprout. The darkness bristles in me. I rub my shoulder in barefoot thoughts. Somehow I do not get up for this day. I do not go. I drag in urban hell and number steps and neon lights. It became mundane and ordinary. I collapse all senses of tarmac- I do not need them. I do not want to feel the nuances, smells and sounds. I want to be transparent in their despondency. To fall from high and to be hurt. I purse lips. The rain is blue in me. I grab it in my hand and splash in city lights. I become ill and brittle. My eyes prick with those edges of the eagerly stubbornness that will cut the fate. I hate it because I love myself. Would I live to amnesty from this life? Certainly in the next I will be a wolf that suckles by your horizons. There is a total sale of the meanings of the last street of my heart. Ghosts are knocking down walls and the sky learns how to walk. I will swallow the last clouds of the season as a cup of cold water, I will overthrow the towers of sadness and build peace. I will undress it of words will coloring as loneliness and it will remind me of my mom and warm as her white hand. These wizards are wordless; bring joy of wandering girls tossed despondent souls and loose snow of hope. It is white and soft, blooms in winter like the one last flower promised to come to my dream. Drop water is gnawing echoes of the cry of the century. I go spread my hands over my swarthy face, and when I become a drop will break down the walls of winter. So it"s strapped me in loops of blind birds and those quietly faded voices of the passing people. This place is not on the maps I made it up. Goes back to my previous lives And brings the winged horses, Mowing stars and all my inventions. I nail down the wings of butterflies With those old bizarre hammers Found in my memory And bear laughter From which blooming snowdrops. This place wakes sunsets- Old like me and More sad. Go from there and bring me your song. I do not hear the cry of dandelions in that world of waiting, but yours. Silence is away after the slap of your last word. I met a red-haired fox. She swings with its tail stars. Where I am absent. Tired wolves grab the heel of night and waiting for a sign. Wind is deaf. I paint winter without eyes. And without hands, but entangled in the tail of sunset. Listen to the cry of the chimney sweep. He’s hungry for sun. But why? Dream rain which remains in your words. Tonight I will remember. And others will forget. The sky has memories. Swing of my hair. Then silence. Somewhere there I am. I saw the rainbow. It was like a bow. Undress your soul, My little rainbow. Kiss my white shoulders, And go wandering. A wonder is the soul Of this little rainbow. I wait the cries of the sun, What I have done. Just breathe, my little angel, With wings in sky, Just breathe, my gentle boy, When I cry. Without words I speak with God, He breathes in my soul, Just breathe, my sun, Just hold me close to you. My memories are grey, And the sun shines, Just breathe, my gentle wind, With tail in skies. I hope the love is endless. I dream for eternity, Just hope, my little angel, Just hope. The sky grows blue in clouds with eyes, The wolves cry hungry for love, Where is the little golden fish? Where is the God as a human wise? With this immense childish anguish. White and wild as that dove That in the high skies cries. I live in the community of wolves. The silence sways my shadow. Each cry of wolves lures And the sky in me grows. The wolves dance barefoot on snow And have no shades. What about them to know? See how the sun fades. Sometimes I think that only God Can understand this cry And the silence is so broad When I touch the sky. The wolves are my brothers With shining eyes They are like altars In which I can pray. My community is so wild, As me, as the nature, I’m the God’s child This is the community’s answer. Buratino had lies in suitcase And went around the world. Heaven is like hopping in Iskar trout - Smooth, sharp, slick, He recounted, And the birds are brothers of rain In November and fall from the sky. The world is full glass loneliness And the sun, drowned in it, Today will stop flashing. By profession my father is a clown - Paint colorful whims, But he"s constrained by the old tree Struck by lightning, So I"m talented and smart And rich, I can with coins in his pocket To buy ice cream for all kids in town. Why did you remain silent, he asks me. You look sad. Do not grip of wood But if your artificial. Your tears are pink flowering cherry, Your laughter cuts the silence like a knife And from your heart fly pigeons. Stop heartbeat, Invent a lie And it would be alive. From the coat of winter fall nails. Thirteen small Judas stitched them into your shirt And laugh in the rain, and the crowd was wild and furious. Poppies crawled on skin Or simply it"s my bloody tears? Will resurrect the life and we where we are? We will find that sunflower cake, Rolling from one apostle? Silvers sting under my tongue. I could not hide them. And I betrayed you. And I cast Angels On the corners of your tired soul. They are frozen from wandering, but yours. I count the money, but not enough. If it weighs as your word It costs as you warm hand? Forgive and forget that silence Shared with me and my mom. Fourteen small Judas are laughing in the rain. Did you recognize me? The reaper in a new role – shaking down celestial nuts, kneads a heavenly bread in the trough, Wraps it in clouds and bakes in the heat of the sunset. He wanted to cut a piece of a swollen loaf But crickets are hungry And whistled. Where is the hope? The sleep falls. A tired night is splashing In the mirror of an empty soul. There aren’t any symbols. The life gets hoarse - and leaves the world to fights the darkness. Do not go to sleep, life! Here, after less than a minute They will rise to thousands of small lanterns fireflies consecrated in disbelief long time- flared in distress. Do not despair, boy, on the pavement in front of you, it"s just - at last, the young, rebellious and shrewish love. The earth casts to the stars Last angel. On the stone temples of the mountain Truth flows bleeding. I deny universe Which narrowed my eyes And throws the clouds - Dogs ran to the world. Dew oozes on stem, It oozes for woman lips. Angel demon with a smile Transferred sunset over his shoulder, Rolls his apple To the last woman in the morning, That bites the black land And quietly sobbing with voice Of Black snowdrops, which penetrated through her transparent skin. Earth today is a hare running on the sleepers Detaching mountains of star field, Rotating galaxies in the palm and produces the most brilliant star, ever will bear my name. Earth as a beacon burns atoms scrolls chaos in an unending carousel and illuminated by the reflections of the night. But God is not attributable to dinner with her- tired of her prolonged laughter, and scramble with the wind. Stars shine over the sunny threshold sinking into silence cry. When will roll again star clock and the Lord will turn the most ordinary person? The flowers wear the mourning of the season, This time white, but dirty from the steps of strangers. Do not forget ringing a heel in the snow- like they write the novel of the century, but a talentless winter drags their white shirts on the roots. It has not a talent to draw me from reverie. I forgot what it is to be silent. I grew up with silence and I cannot without it- this silence of winter, which says everything. Owls remember honey lips of sunrise and my cloudy eyes, in the season when the dew came in the nest and destroy the wisdom of the wind. Overhanging threatening horizon bends wires full of birds, and the day of the lame leg is emerging from his lair and throws spots sun on bare ground. Owls remembered. I do not. Why does bread bitter? Perhaps because of bad weather or because me. I’m a new hostess of time. I spread it and smooth edges. I knot his beads in colorful clothes. Maybe I keep it? Light blue silence melts into darkness. The snow flew as white doves. It’s rather tight my sky Rolled a nest with suns on earth to shine. I spill the carmine of the rainbow on people who look like ants. I’m strolling tired fate and watch despondently into its eyebrows. I will blow the sky in pieces soul- it’s much. My soul poured with rain and now I"m without a road. I"ll count every step of the Earth"s bosom, will draw deer lips merged heaven and earth in my little universe. The horizon spins ragged a shirt in the clouds, and on its cheekbones is dripping sky. This wind outdated by racking up rain is thoughtful and forges a world of silent thoughts and colors. I overstep the last threshold of one endless day stained my youth like a rainbow and slipped into new drifts of happiness clutching a handful of sun in the mouth darker than wine. I will spill wandering winter in the palms of long forgotten people conquered the world perched on my shoulder and brought it small and scowling. I will pour those dry words in the infinity hanging over me as bright omen and carry wind and light. The horizon will drop and I will stretch hands instead him to keep the last birds in winter by incessant winds. he moon rattles as copper – like God hurled her to steal the song of the black birds of winter and tears of gray hinds. The snow is aging on the pavement of the time, white doves are sweeping him with wings, I"m subsided, cloudy; pale-just the last woman in the world. And he"s a coin-large and round, with already worn out heads and tails. Get used, sky, that I"m gone in the morning; I"m eternal verse of the night. I will fill a bag with a handful of earth to know where to go. I will slice chunk sadness in slices large and black. I will eat a bit of dark bread, but tomorrow it will be on my new soul as a brass coin. In the disorder of the universe I mix loneliness and sadness, the sun underhanded sing that song of joy. I pour a cup of laughter in a sleepy morning, strain the cream of silence. The residue is black and has a strong bitterness. I squander weather in that eternal timelessness in which owls draw fate and love is bright line. The earth burns in gray tones and I increasingly stumble feet of that swarthy happiness popped around the corner hiding my shadow Where it ever heard of happiness that seizure? Life has no words for death as big as the eye of a bird, for an abyss stopped the breath of summer, for winter without hands and lips. Again comes the season of mists and silence cuts like a knife gardens, last tulip lost the scent is a symbol of hope and crucifix. Life never says why, however, there was not, leaves a poor heart of the new Match Girl, lights the world with humble words. Life lights, but no burns, and the scars are deep and desirable, Sheherizada wait in line to hear my new tale for the summer. A falling death from the lips of this poor and miserable life is only a sign that after each birth die dated traditions. I hate this verse with every word, even crouched and lowered. It hurts by sorrow, strokes with a breath of wind, but as it is trite. From me to the sun - scattered crickets, tired violins gnash in the shoe of the largest the heart of mime playing affection and stars beats like a broken coin. I burn with breath the line of clouds where wolves waving tails reconciled with a sunset view of the saddest eyes. Silence leaks from a verse darkening palms over your face. And the wind speaks an unknown language to me, in which melodies choke words. Dandelions cry unloved, begin to fly, burst, and suggest to me that the joy and the sun are to anyone when you want to plunge into the fatigue. It hides a falling rain from that broken in rags cloud where I hid my last loneliness that do not share with anyone. My hands are autumn. They pray outstretched, dream birds or maybe guys making off with my sadness on their strong shoulders. I do not like them. Darkness falls of irises and outlines the final touch on the skin and pentagram of love words seeps into the mist and smell of love. Heavenly shepherd who some call the Lord threw me his curse: to fall as a heap at the hands of the night and to speak with unicorns. It does not get better. On the contrary. I caw. And my verse caws. I lost silence in constant pursuit of ghosts. The sunset melted, flowed like rain and there was light even for thieves of love. They are strange. They refract faith and inspiration and leave me empty. Now I will cast all clovers and horseshoes and my hands will be spring. Someone put bars in front of the sun and kick the sadness in the corner. This is not good, I need a breath and a piece of good old sun to sew shirt of my bare love. It does not need angel wings – it has long ago forgotten what it is to be a heavenly messenger and cemented its new spring in a lame and bare soul, unable to see farther than the scream of words. The buttons will be last sunset. My tired lips will put that label that may be just the caress of the last woman in love in the world. And if the sun does not sleep, my love will dress shirt and will throw against fate. Or maybe not. As wind in striving the moon edged to warm my hands. The silence is heavy. As a baby is crying the oldest cricket sad to scream from his unrequited sigh. He throws his broken violin to a wandering rider – a demon made from pieces of a huge wooden heart, which began to beat like a star in my chest. It will blow silence, words will fly once hidden between pain and darkness and I will train all horses and will fly alongside the rider demon – a usual boy who gives a heart against wandering affection. The wind becomes hoarse from wandering and love. Whether is wind or someone shouldering silence on his back? It will pause in front of my strong hands over the hard dirt. He will cry and ask for a new Calvary, trembling, live in my wild eyes. Then I will be a child lost in a universe of wandering knights. But I did not need them. I"ve got that hoarse from wandering and love wind. With hands full of field flowers and a heart as big as infinite, it threw the brightest stars in our faces, crying and spelling hope that I will jump the sun stopping my boy. Ragged Pinocchio wants a copper coin from the deepest heart, where are those hidden coins of love, so warm that leave a scar on the skin. Yes, it is my threadbare hope for lips, arms and love. I pick off pieces cloud and forge a coat of many colors for the bum. To wear that blue, that entails the wind and the sun and seeks my orange soul. My Pinocchio, my boy in love, let us be colored like affection. Thirsty suns fall. Sunflowers slide tired and sad to endless sky. I spin love in a ball of blue with thin threads. Eternity is aging in the hands of a child. It looks up. It wants to seize the scream of that sad bristling crow. It portends love, but why not for me? I am a handful love passed on the edge of the sky hung black soul. Turns it into white with your lips. Feed me with uncouth verse. And my suns will drip for you. Soft light and music on the edge of the soul. They dance thirsty for love with merged hands pending happiness. They do not need language of love to crave but only the language of the bodies. They will burn in the silence and become shadows of that feeling learned to walk and crept between them, squeezed them into passionate tenderness of unexpected but current affection. They will sink into confidence of caressing palms, pressed to blue lips in the name of that - eternal and irresistible. Amen! Tulips make love under the rain, every cry is hope. Dream tulips, men, delete silence of the course. The sky descended and black hopes rained and there isn’t anyone to color them, and darkness is hanging hopeless. Love tulips, men - every word has its meaning. Tulips planted in the heart of love can grow. Forgive tulip, men, this morning it woke up sad. It hugged its searing dark tear, the illusion became complete. And if you ever rip the tulip, men, know that white soul will come in your sleep. And warm tulips, men, will be your fate and destiny. When the quiet trails went to emptiness, to fullness, to nothing, to something, your last feeling was burning away and your soul was breathing with my lips. And seconds silence flared, heat and light spread in veins of my quiet love which collapsed high bell tower of the wishes and whispers of the past two lovers in the world. We counted coins in the fountain of confidence that each was thrown sigh in the wind at the heights and to the other. Hopes were flowing, these words fell down, frightened deer in the convoy of the day, and only faint longing for you and light makes me different. I do not want bread of guys falling in love- their bread is unlived love. I unravel colors of rainbow and write with them on your swarthy shoulder. Red like poppies ink diffuses any gentle interjection. Passion like a ball has shrunk and howls in my chest like wolf. I"m afraid of tenderness and trust – like thorns wounded by sin weigh. I grab a smile in handfuls and pray for a drop of water from your lips clenched in silence, smelling of honey and chestnuts. The trap of my last love seizes me. Now I want forgiveness with a glass of tenderness. The sea is turned upside-down sky with ring salt on the lips of besotted dolphins. Heavy oil tears are dripping on the waves and the wind melt the arc in the rhythm of a last tango of an old American film. The skin of light melted drops of air and water, mermaids have been long ago invisible, but still keep the silence of the day. Rain collects tired gulls in the trap of sleep and eyes of birds are empty. Fate takes down the black curtain of darkness – grey and frantic. Where is the captain to shrink the wind in fist, to curse the element? And it is eternal - like land and death. Sea is waiting to meet me, but I did not wait, and spin with orb of words last sign that the wind will throw in four directions. Omen that I conceived of suffering, it will melt sadness in drops meerschaum - hope for all captains. Water has a body – slight and light that at night walks along the shore, and its footsteps are velvet, soft and become bitter from salt and burn like day. The sea brings a cloak of dawn on skeleton- hard and bumpy, the shadows weigh of birds and tired falling raindrops. Sea cries at night for ships, boats, sailors and at morning smiles sheepishly to the coming storm. I need the soul of water, I will shake the sand and silence from it and sow the wind lips to sting and kiss. Darkness hissed angrily in me. Thousands of small sirens hanged silence with hair. Wind was thrown by someone - to stun me. Scream of a bird, blow in stone - how small is the world. Song of bells sting, a handful of sky fell. And my wisdom is a fish -shiny, heavy and black. Quickly it hides in the subterranean reefs, never to me. Hit with the shoulder wall in me, playing fanfares, fog falls, and my soul is languishing and languishing in the thick silence. Make a key for hope in the grip of my heart, hide it in pocket. The song of rural bells sting, lips touch the sky. Is this love, is this force? Spring will be born in the rain. The wind plays sadly and heavily, heart fell in the mud. Who will pick it up, shook and threw to the heavy, soft frost? Spring, love without return are waiting for me and calling out.