05.09.2017 13:39
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 © Чиянова Марина Вікторівна

IN A WELL-GROUNDED VOICE

Добре опанованим голосом

In a well-grounded voice

I used to explain to you

Why I`m unable to show

What I truly feel.

At that time the trees were tiny

and books were huge.


In a well-grounded voice

which I`m used to playing with

I used to lose myself to the city

I`m so sorry for

because it`s not a melting pot yet.


In a well-grounded voice, 

looking for an evolution privilege in your eyes, 

daring to copy and recover

your thoughts, 

daring to rise against you, 

drifting in your own words, 

but never going too far from the schedule, 


I used to watch half of your dreams.

Is this getting global or personal?


I miss who we used to be.



Одеса, 04.09.2017

Візьміть участь в обговоренні

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  • Зберегти, як скаргу
 06.09.2017 05:18  Іван Петришин => © 

in a well-grounded voice,

we all try to yell from our own Royal Royce

using the patterns of the textbook,

imagining ourselves a dutchess or a duke,

thinking of cities as of our realms,

being or looking for a William Thelms,

keeping them clean as kettles or pots,

glimpsing and grinning our "what`s ?",

thinking our feelings are very specific,

out-of-crowds and out-of- conventions,

so unexplainable and over-proliphic,

that usual means are too poor to use,

as we are sick of the abuse,

as we are the wrong and the low,

and, to each happening, we will say "no!",

and, to each beat of the existence of others,

we will apply the Darwin`s, Einstein`s,

following the conversion of a microbe into a man,

the one that should, that must and that can

in an obedience of a slave

do, what you need from him for a day,

and, that that is the only way

for any man to prove he is brave,

or he is wise, or clever, or both,

trying to copy the minds or the thoughts

that were so much talently brought

to the tip of your own tongue,

just for the braveness or for mean fun,

thinking of you, as of a Spartak with a sword,

or as an ancient Sirtaki-seaman on board,

scheduling always to close to the time

that doesn`t obey,

thinking of men as of a day,

thinking of a day as of a slave

that is rowing non-stop above the waves,

thinking you watch the dreams of a man,

while you just drink the nectar of your illusions,

diving into the perfect delusions,

thinking of being a Cassandra-like prophet,

for a mere exercise or for some profit,

while all the world and the hero are coughing,

you seem to think as a doctor-treat-all,

but what we were, we no longer are-

the time elapsed, and that space is too far,

we used to be the matter and psyche,

now, we are elements of the world`s wheel bike-

someone is riding and someone is not:

yes, our galaxies boil, like two pots,

and our knowledge`s reduced to "why-what`s ?"

Ivan Petryshyn