The hands you wash
To Bulgakov and his intertemporary world
People are see-through, Their minds are readable.
Love is scarce, and it puts scars on you.
Roads are long, and nights are tiresome,
You look at a three-colour moon.
Moody days and evenings
overwhelmed with bright stars
and digits on your hand symbolize numbers,
the numbers you talk
out of your refined sentences.
The water flows like an element of awareness,
you look at palms that grow old and dry,
you look at your land and it falls apart into letters,
like your sentences.
And you wash your hands
with the clearest water,
but you meet murderers
and fall into a cold rigid dream.
© Maryna Tchianova
Odessa, 12.03.2018