надішли мені лаванду

надішли мені лаванду з кримських гір

посміхнися - як ти тільки вмієш - з фото

пам’ятаєш? присмак кави - там де «Мусафір»

пам’ятаєш? як хмариться, туманиться у каньйоні

нагадай мені за вулички Бахчисарая

заклик муедзіна, мінаретів олівці

дощ відчуй імлистий, холодок гранітних брил

і долоньку заховай в моїй руці

памятаєш? сутінки вагону, стук коліс

вихори шалені в двох серцях

відчуваєш? як гаряча кров "Екім-кари"

розливається по ерогенних зонах

як ти там, моя фісташко, де сховалась ніжна Джаніке?

чи ніхто не розірвав твоє зашерскле тіло?

чи так само підземелля криють щось таке

що тепер згадати солодко і гірко

зацілуй - як тільки ти умієш,

говори з теплом, що лиш у тебе є

дай напитися краплинами із твого тіла

і не відпускай мене нікуди, як тоді

посміхнися – ти завжди так гарно посміхалась

наче дівчинка мала - закопиль вуста

обійняти дай тебе, закрутить навколо

щоб аж паморочилася голова

напиши мені всього три слова

врешті просто надішли листа

напиши, що зараз ти щаслива,

що можливо й не усе гаразд,

але ти - мене не розлюбила

але ти - пробачила мене

надішли ж мені лаванду з яйл і перевалів,

зачаруй мене у терні й кропиві,

і посидь зі мною на краєчку прірви,

в мить, що певно краща у житті…

I have a dream…

Have you ever noticed how small our dreams are?

In the 90-s guys dreamed of being racketeers, girls – foreign-currency-paid prostitutes. Then the most adventurous ones were shot, and the boldest – sold to Albanians. Now the dream limit is – a manager. A being in a suit and a trendy tie. I guess this is how angels in Jehovah’s Witnesses’ paradise look like. In winter – Maldives or if you are not that lucky – Egypt, on Friday – to get drunk. In the morning – coffee, at noon – solitaire, at night - minimum needs for a sleep. Sex with an office co-worker or an ad representative. If you are not that lucky – with administration, in a queer form. Those who were deprived of gray matter are dreaming about a cop’s uniform. Cooler than that would be an attorney’s uniform, but there you need a brain. But Chinese haven’t learned yet how to make it cheap and of good quality. To dream is in general considered an unrewarding action nowadays. The maximum that’s allowed is - to win a million dollars. Or to purchase an apartment on the Pechersk hills or one can also get a deputy’s seat. Forever, if possible. To cut the budget, sometimes knock down mob with a new car and wag his tongue at Shuster Live show.  

 Therefore I am almost sure that 90% of the population irrespectively of the language, residential area or religion would happily agree to organize the National political prison on the ten per cent of the territory of Ukraine – with areas for hunting, helipads, palaces and kangaroos. And to place all those, longing for a deputy’s seat, there. Sure thing, forever. And that’s it. What do you think? It would be actually cheaper than it’s now.

 Anyway the situation in the world is not much better. Limitation of the coefficient of globality of dreams by the world bureaucratic international is absolutely logic and directly connected with the demographic collapse of the civilization. Nature protects itself as much as it is able, by homosexuality and murders, cataclysms and genocides, but hairless monkeys multiply faster. And to give them an opportunity to dream – is a fancy not planned in the business plan. So, a dream started to decay. Both in width and in depth.

And the worst thing is that even children’s drams are spoilt. Nobody dreams of being Robin Hood or Gagarin, Cinderella or Snow Queen. Of making a bow by himself or learning how to cook borsch. Not even speaking about baking pies or wood-burning. We are not talking about the freaks, who stay the only source of the sacred knowledge about all those things. They are kept in case of a nuclear war. What if we again have to bake pies or chop wood. And all of this with hands. What a NIGHTMARE!!!

 On the other hand - whole social groups, and sometimes countries (such as Somalia, Congo or Afghanistan) just fall out of the dream-making process. The Planet doesn’t notice those sarcomas which devour post-Christian, white (excuse me this non-tolerant word) civilization. Likewise the last Romans, the world thinks that it can negotiate with cannibals. You can negotiate, of course. The problem is that their currency is violence, not a dollar. The Us Ambassador in Libya was not saved by the passport, or by dollars, or by aircraft carriers. A tamed beast starts eating the tamer, and he keeps murmuring about the rights of beasts. It is called – tolerance. 

 The saddest thing is that beasts’ dreams are to eat all others and become the toughest beast. What is even worse is that beasts are actually right. To unite a gazelle and a lion under one scepter is possible only by violence alone or segregating them into different cages. Segregation is above the law and violence is given to terrorists as a franchise.

 When Genghis Khan was asked what he was striving for in his marches, he answered: “I wish a girl with a golden plate in her hands could go from the Yellow Sea to the Black Sea, without being afraid of losing her honor or the plate”. The similar idea about the area from Panjshir to Waziristan was also a dream of Talibes. Only the New Horde can unite a climacteric Europe and a frigid Russia.  An impotent Mongolia, let alone Ukraine, is not capable of that. Apparently the only two challengers for the place of Casanova are China or Caliphate that is quickly developing. What a weird word-play! The Old Turkic “ordu” – khan’s headquarters and Latin “ordo” - the order. The Steppe and the City. Yin and Yang. The Afghan mountains and skyscrapers of Guangzhou, Hong Kong and Singapore. And among all that, between a yurt and a douar, there lies my Land, which is called Ukraine. 

I am dreaming of not having to choose between the East and the West. Drinking water from the Dnipro without thinking if I am going to die poisoned next morning. Seeing herds of wild oxen on Kherson steppes, and eagles that soar above the mounds. I am dreaming… Of listening to the play of springs in the Kholodnyi Ravine and hearing Ukrainian in public buses. I am dreaming about singing “Yesterday” together with Hakim and Benjamin, sitting on the Temple Mount. About searching for remedies for various diseases in the Ituri jungle without being afraid for my life. Studying ancient words of bushmen on the Namib barchans. Walking down the streets of Benghazi and Port Said without hiding a cross under the shirt. Drinking “Kindzmarauli” in Daghestan mountains and fishing for a grayling on the Yenisei rapids. My dreams pull apart my poky body and my poky Ukraine. I dream about shooting away in a Cadillac Eldorado down a luxurious highway from Lisbon to Vladivostok. Feeding tigers in an orthodox monastery together with the president of the republic of Zeleny Klyn (the Green Ukraine). Hiking with a backpack from Mohenjo-daro to Jericho. Singing “Vona” (“Her”) in the Grand Canyon and skiing down the Greenland snows.

Why is there so much of me? And why is there so little strength for making the DREAM come true? Maybe I collected dreams that are not mine? Maybe you put them in storage and lost the key? I know that for my dream to come true – millions have to lose their homes and peace. Thousands – their lives. And several dozens – to curse me.  But there is no choice – we scatter away to the outskirts of Ecumene, like the Universe after it had passed the point of singularity. And either horde or ordnung. Or the DREAM. It’s also the name of the biggest aircraft in the world. Made in Ukraine. 

And if you don’t like my dream – study Putonghua and the schedule of namaz, my dear friends.

Листи щастя

Для багатьох гуманоїдів, що живуть на цій планеті, для щастя досить мати комфортну печеру, набитий мамонтятиною холодильник і затверджений алгоритм в синусоїді «робота-страждання - вихідні-релакс». Зрештою, якщо поставитися до усього, що нас оточує філософськи, то можливо й не варто розгойдувати життєву гойдалку згори-вниз. Жити собі, існувати, дихати, вживати якусь їжу, зрідка підживлювати рецептори чужими емоціями або алкоголем. 

Можливо… Але як же це нестерпно!

Нестерпно - знаючи, що можливо усе інакше.

Знати, що поруч є щастя. І це щастя має обличчя. Найпрекрасніше у світі.

Це щастя має диво-голос. Щастя, якому я пишу листи, мріючи бодай про два слова відповіді. Відтоді, як ти з’явилася - прийшло розуміння того, що усе життя розполовинилося на «до тебе» і «з тобою». І нехай між нами засніжені поля і кілометри доріг, нехай душа розривається від туги за тобою, а серце закам’яніло у своєму болю.

Щастя – знати, що ТИ є.

Що ти дихаєш, всміхаєшся, зітхаєш, їси щось смачненьке або й навіть просто похапцем перехоплюєш якийсь салатик.

Що ти грієш свої ручки в обіймах чашки чаю.

Що твої оченята слідкують за світом і ставлять йому діагноз.

Знати - що ТИ можеш, знати - що чиниш те, що подобається тобі.

Щастя - це кружляти тебе в обіймах. Говорити тобі такі речі, які, окрім тебе, не знає ніхто.

Мовчати і тонути в безодні твоїх очей. Розчісувати твоє волосся і плести з нього косу.

Дихати гірськими вітрами і цілувати солодкими від вина губами хмари.

Гладити твої подарунки, уявляючи, що це ТИ.

Кусати до сліз на очах подушку, бо тебе немає поруч.

І молити по тому бога, аби ТИ навідалася хоча б уві сні.

Насправді не так. Молитися до тебе…

Молитися - аби ТИ сказала ті слова, які так колись розбили вщент моє серце й душу.

Сказала - і не припиняла їх говорити.

Молитися - аби одного дня життя знову відновилося.

Мені є стільки усього тобі розказати. Мені є стільки усього з тобою помовчати.

Мої пальці прагнуть твоїх. Мої губи жадають спити сік твоїх губ.

Моє єство спопеліло без твоєї присутності.

Я не знаю, чому заперте в скриньці серце - це краще, ніж обійми двох сердець.  Нехай навіть на мить. Нехай зранених і тріпотливих, але живих.

Попри те, що буревії кружляють нашу чергову революцію, попри смерті і тортури, я не хочу знати інших викликів, окрім того, що доля розлучила нас. Бо усе мине, і - як казав класик – інші житимуть люди, інші кохатимуть люди…

Не пам’ятаю чи казав тобі колись – насправді ми НІКОМУ не потрібні в цьому світі, окрім одне одного.

Усі наші рухи, вчинки, думки можуть бути епізодично цікаві кому-небудь. Хтось зауважить думку, комусь перепаде достатку, а ще хтось зігріється нашими емоціями.

Саме тому так дивно було знати, що в тобі мене цікавило УСЕ.

Від нігтика на ногах до літери в слові.

І саме тому таким щастям було знати, що ти думала так само.

І саме тому я пишу тобі листа. Ще одного серед тих, які вибивали пальці по клавішам, коли біль ставав зовсім нестерпним.

Коли ти вкотре навідувала мене уві сні.

Я готовий і буду писати ці листи, бо ти ЩАСТЯ.

Лиш ТИ – ЩАСТЯ…

WHAT FOR?

When it is raining endlessly. When the sky died and is covered with gray clouds. When the wind is blowing in your pockets. When you are drinking the tenth cup of coffee and do not feel its taste. When the one you love, thinks you are nothing.  When you not sure any more if you have ever loved for real. When your dearest dies. When tears are coming down and you don’t want to keep them. When a gray kitten has no chances to avoid the car wheels. When a bird’s flight is cut short by a meaningless shot.  When you have to choose between bad and disgusting. When prosperity and status are made on children’s pain and tears. When you want to step on a narrow concrete strip that marks the roof off the abyss and make a step forward…Then, when you want it, here’s a desperate question - WHAT FOR?

What for is all of that? What for, if both love and hatred vanish the same way? What for, if all of us will die? What for, if everything in this world has money equivalent? And those who doubt it are fools, because they know nothing about this life. Everything around is vanity. All the plots have been written long time ago and even decorations of this specific life have been already used for somebody somewhere. There are so many of us on the planet that each of us is used by the civilization for 1 % at most. Millions of people live just to spoil air, water and soil, create several ones similar to them and eliminate a hundred - of different, but still alive ones. Or even similar ones.

Each moment civilization produces megatons of plastic, metal, chemicals and synthetic materials that will be a trend in some unnecessary industry right tomorrow, in order to give place to something different, newer, but, in fact, simply newly-mixed stuff the day after tomorrow.

Why do we launch space rockets, if we do not know what to do here – on the Earth? Why do we go to the churches with Good Friday face, if both churches and souls are abandoned long time ago? Whom for does this civilization of protein robots, who function in the framework of simple algorithms, exist? Mankind, what for do you devour TIME and SPACE?!!!

 To answer the questions, compiled from letters above, you don’t need to possess an extraordinary brain or God’s enlightenment…What you need is to realize that life is not just a form of existence and reproduction of proteins. It’s a complex of actions, feelings, impressions, deeds, touches, conditions, borders. Those are ups and downs. Spread out millions of kilometers of space, and feelings, compressed into a drop of pain. Breath of fresh air piercing each atom of your body. Billions of flaming worlds scattered high above your head. The rainbow that exists just a couple seconds and gives flashes of love carnival between the rays and the drops. It’s that kiss which matters more than sex and anything else. It’s that first touch of her – the one, the only, the sweetest in the Universe! Wild burst of emotions, hormones, touches, cramps, when it feels like a supernova explosion, and there’s no you and her, but a united body that is burning and reflecting. And this moment is worth dying in it.

Life… What it’s like without a taste of fresh baked bread? Without its crispy crust and the whole smell of warmth, that went through the field and wheat heads, hands and fire and into a little wonder… Warm milk flavour and wet eyes of a cow, looking at you. Smell of dew drops on the grass, the force filling your body through each leaf of knotgrass, with spicy breaths of wormwood and milfoil. You exist when melting in the maternal lap of the world ocean… When drinking freezing silver of the well water. When disappearing in the greenish abyss of the Dnipro waves.  When feeling as a half-brother to all those creatures, hidden in the blue blood of the sea.

 The sense of being on this small planet opens up when a child’s hand trustfully disappears in your palm. When eyes of your dear, dark and deep as the Kholodnyi Ravine springs, hold your caress. When your voice and your friends’ voices come as one song. When you breast the highest mountain and wipe your sweaty forehead with hands skinned to blood.  When you crawl through dirt and evil without knowing if there is a way out, but you don’t give up! When everybody thinks that you are doing wrong, but you do it your way.

 When nobody remembers anymore why we are here, and only you know that it’s a game. And when this life game is over and we all wake up one morning, once more we will realize and recollect something. Along those star-studded highways that our spaceship is ripping from nowhere to nowhere, there is no better mind game than life…