It was snowing too insistently,
snowflakes almost as big as the eye,
over nostrils, over half-open lips,
over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,
exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.
I had the profile of a porcelain statue
like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.
After a while I started to breathe now and then,
choked first while crying, then while sighing
and finally while hiccuping.
Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,
or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.
How could he possibly hide in my blood then
when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,
when I had sipped the milk foam my whole childhood
without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?
How could that man travel through my heart’s mill stones
without being ground down completely?
Now only tears are sticking over nostrils, over half-open eyelids
like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.
Not a single barrier, not a single one way sign,
not a single red traffic light
or at least a church with saint relics.
sunlight twinkles through the window
on pink and white hyacinths
she reads a fairy tale
colors tremble in the book
are butterflies going asleep mom
the child repeats looking aside
it doesn’t matter she answers quickly
too spoiled she thinks
he will forget until tomorrow
I want to know if butterflies die mom
she keeps silent crumpling the question
in her apron pocket
smelling like cinnamon and lemon
wind thrown leaves fill the balcony
yellow rusty brown
the child opens his hazy eyes
why butterflies never cry mom
„And mom, stones were changing
into butterflies, learning how to fly.”
The child was smiling,
tears gathering in beehives
became only dewdrops.
This time I was walking along
like a shadow,
counting leaves into rivers,
returning whispers to silence,
haunted by brown and dry colors,
with my eyes moist like tender stars rising
in the summer evenings,
with my heartbeat unleashing
the cold springs waterfalls
from bygone days.
I was expecting you to leave
she was repeating avidly
grinding words like coffee beans
popping between teeth
something fresh getting inside
like the wind through her open window
turning over the bed sheets
at a cold midnight hour
not a single tear in her eyes
like almonds with mascara perfume
her mouth’ corners were wet
her plait knitted in three shafts
above the withered poplar on the street
the moon’s horn was drifting to the right
the woman kept her pillow over her heart
only her soft voice was still heard
faraway how far will you leave
she was repeating again and again
I am extracting with effort
from the memory season
cold and warm.
What’s the use, said you,
to cry in so many colors
painting my windows
with the subjective version
of your story ?
And besides this, you can see
how difficult it is to cry them
because barely coming to life
they become stony and fall down.
Therefore I am worried
that my windows will break
and the cold will get inside…
over both of us.