April by Andrei Temnikov

As soon you can measure the space there’s a mere bright spot upon dark waters That’s how I recognise my own voice when its word is engaged with the star Sometime it is dark sometime it’s like a link’s little star Unpleasant even to myself for its unsmart notices Birds my beloved gloaming dead time in the woods I wish the voice of yours could be the same transparent I’m enough with a grey space another simply blue It’s a dialegtic leg of an antique halfgod When flowers are strange and every thing seems dead this’s my time Every thing still seems dead and secresy trickles from every stem Optional and cruel secresy that I cannot understand Dead time of the woods speaks through waves of its hand like a mute I’m the eye of a pain in a woodlands’ mechanism they were good with me I’m not shown to anyone the heights are forbidden for me I know my garment is old and black this’s easy to get dirty in the woods The only thing I don’t know is my heart and that the morrow glows in it I walked upon the river but couldn’t s