Poem to Brain Eno
Mantra for Creation and Apocalypse                                    
 
Three sides of plate

Don’t be afraid
Beatific Augustin
It’s vain
Ecclesiastes

To be listened along
Kate bush – the song of solomon
Xploding plastix – far-flung tonic
The cilimanjaro Dark – Solomon’s Curse
Birdy Nam Nam - migration

A

Repeat – from the tree of wishes you’ll take off
celophane bags and handkarchives or everything
of cloth that we had in our packets,
as dry washings from colthes-line, tear them
and cut the treeinto the plaything matchwoods.
Repeat that we didn’t remain with not gathered fruits
and followed the water – washed with self-murderer rains,
we were laying in the boat, our hearts were beating nine bodies across
and heart was sliping down blanket of blood every now and then.
Repaet that you sow stars yourself,
that last night you soiled your feet with arable of night,
that when I darken,you furtivaly go to the Sun
and touch forgotten shadows on the bed of the Sun.
Repeat that we both lost colour,
we were laying near white house and were asking visitor for white wine
and we were writing verses and every soul
that we hd been breathed in when we were born, we coughed out on the hand of doctor.
Repeat – our street put end to the rin and the Sun picked ripe umbrellasof our neighbours
and where it was raining, in order to hear the same sky again,
we got tired of finding way out from the forest of pradise.
Repeat that night came insteaof day again,
because you silently teared up awhite hseet of paper
and when we’ll be gone,you’ll find fire for thissheet somewhere,
sothat even Godcouldn’tavoide death.
And touch my breast with your gazecombed eye,
hang down youreye and ion the thousand-dealing wind of dreams
repeat that tomorrow morning you’ll birth ships,
that Earth got thirsty and all the seas dried.

B

My son, Zurab, till what?
Woe is me, mother, till reel!
Wings, tied to my back like sails, were pulling me down
and seas were seen – seas, not reaped byt the winds.
My son, Zurab, till what?
Woe is me, mother, till knee!
Every sun rose together, I got sunstroke from them alltogether
if I had a hand, I’dcover myself with thousands of clouds.
My son, Zurab, till what?
Woe is me, mother, till waist!
Mother, I was sleeping, I became blind from the breath of field of sleep,
I couldn’t see you any longer and I was mowing dreams from fear.
My son, Zurab, till what?
Woe is me, mother, till throat!
Mountains inflected me with incurable mist,
I have an endless relapsing fever – I became squinteyed forever,
Gaze returned into my eye like a hair, I’m finished for day
And light isn’t seen even so much to be enough to take tear to the eye.
My son, Zurab, till what?
Woe is me, mother, till shadow!
Mother found Zurab when he was tiny
And she was mourning over him – so she grew him up – she got tired from sorrow –
Zurab was growing up –
He became higher than knee, higher than waist,
Higher than throat, higher than shadow,
He became higher than his mother.

c

And to you, my mother, i’ll dedicate these wicked lines,
as it’smorning and you came from the village early
and I contrived you like crying og birth –
I’m sitting in the shrubs and I just laugh at you both,
as you are a woman too and you, women make your nest on the other tree,
you knit and undo socks from winter-grass for your hasbands
and you abort your eyelid,
which is twenth-month pregnnt by love, like dirty tears.
And little by little freankles onyour faces grow older,
you get up early and in order to pray for sleeping God,
onthe rooled up edge of sky’s canvas you send curved shyness
with a thin profile of the wind beyond the molbert.
.....And,my mother, at least once, be a sister for me,
and listen to me – don’t suffocate vinegared linens with feber
that graveyeard is just a warm wardrobe,
where we take off our dusty bodies for a short time
that graveyeard is a wardrobe of drunk God
and when we leave for, he,drunk, returns us somebody else’s bodies.
I can understand God – it’s not easy
tosit in the garrent and count the worms.
And,probably,we’ll be strangers for a long time,
I’ll be sitting in the shrubs and I’ll have laughter for you
until casks of wine willn’tempty in the sky
and until sober God willn’t find our old clothes for us.
However, who knows,may be we hated twinkling before,
hated clouds and hated to get tired from playing inthe clouds
and let’s prefare today that heaveness of our cut wings
never would make us look up to God
or, may be, wind opened some other door forme
when Iwas back fromthe cornfield with a busket, full of sweat,
and, may be, God sits not in the cloudsurrounded sky,
and if you don’t repeat anything because you don’t recognize me,  
I’ll go there,where water is calm,
and you marry him who got up first at night
and in the warm manger repeat to me once more.