When he is kissing, he does it very fondly
With reckless and the disparate tenderness.
Fascinated, all the external world hushes. Doubtless
There is the ardor without too much intensity.
He plays on,
His passion slowly revealed, like a red rosebud at dawn.
When he nestles his lover, he looks asleep -
That’s illusory dormancy, in the nest of his arms
Even the air’s maturing, melting and seeps.
When he loosens an embrace, his smile disarms,
Sending waves of excitement coursing through you,
You can hear the song - his internal world’s singing.
My curiosity’s growing, it’s awakening me …
His sensual mouth has resilient, sensitive lips
Which are as determined as timid. I see sacral way,
If others his servants have been
So much tireless, ingenious in love as these
I’d imbibe a love-potion with him,
I’d become only his, a devoted female slave.
He doesn’t need a return, as a free spirit he
Rejoices at his generosity with another within
The magical music of feelings
Which is blossoming, soundless, best,
Therefore all the world is responding to him
Through a woman’s compliant body,
All aflutter, which snuggles up to his chest.
There is love, there is lust, there is huge self-deception…
His musician’s fingers create an ambrosian melody
On the face of his sweetheart
when he’s smooching her playfully.
In his gaze is a blend of great misery, bliss and triumph,
The Universe is eyeing him up
through the eyes of his beauty.
As things go, as well as a buzz of the crowd, traffic noise -
Flimsy threads will be torn – course of nature.
By reason of duty
She’ll walk away and he will move off,
And his violin in a battered fiddle-case. So, last bell…
Then “I love you, good bye” or “forgive me” of last farewell?
His Muse’s left him..but I can’t understand …
He stared at her back as if it’s their last date,
it is his last request: '
Please turn back, look at me” –
whether a whisper or a groan follows her
Where’s she hurrying to, leaving him?
I am holding my breath,
Glimpse her face, oh, naive, foolish girl!
Hardly possible to overtake her, return.
He got on his old bike and
dissolved in the faceless conflux.
As for me, I was standing by the window
of the “ Music and instruments” shop
Surrounded by notebooks and my dreams
those were unrealizable.
I’d been catching their feelings, that were almost tangible,
Because of his famished and shameless passion,
Because of my famished and shameless heart,
I’ve left them without sorrow,
I’ve left them - no word, no thought.
I don’t gather them for myself
and don’t bring flowers home,
Which were culled, which are dead…
Many winters and springs elapsed,
While I’d being putting in fiddle-case
Either several pennies or pounds.
I have given him neither a glance nor a promise,
Yet I’d loved him standing there
By the shop window panes.
He had melted away, so the fragrance
Of his subtle amorous magic`d exhaled
Alas! Since that time I have never heard sounds
of his violin in the town...
P.S. Oh, Buskers.. They are lonely flowers
at the side of grey roads
of our illusory, drab existence.