Born in pain, in the flame of song

here comes a dream that never was,

the moon emerges from the murky water.

The dirty sediments fall in cloudy clusters
to the bottom, to their resting place
where they get their shape, colour and smell.

The hazy vapours rise slowly,

their silent sighs drift to heaven

like white clouds of imagination.

A night apparition, a tired rusalka

stretches herself, baring her yellow teeth.

She was not destined to find sweet oblivion

in repulsive embraces of the thorny wastrels

who intoxicated her with senses’ confusion,

and dragged her into the swamp of insipid muddle.

At last she is moving, all sluggish and clumsy,  

shaking off the remnants of the filthy matter,

catches the moon's reflections in empty eye sockets.

She’s waving her arms, and her winged hands

lift her above the hungry sucking magma,

and the glorious moon wraps her in its splendour.

She walks on the water carpet of musings,

the flock of fish scatters with silver amazement

into hundreds of twinkling sequins,

then together again, in a mirror united,

their reflection caresses her feet, wet and tired.

​​​

Two lights get connected, talking to each other

in a secret language of the silent song

like a child comforted by her mother's voice

finds two worlds of beauty in harmonious spheres. 

The apparition has a candle with a timid light,

her ball gown is peach and cream coloured,

the sequins shimmer with array of colours.

The sweet harp’s melody is moving her

into a slow dance, like of a butterfly

which spins and swirls above the silvery surface.

The light of the moon and its sunken disc 

catch her together in the beam of their headlights,

taking her back to darkness and then back to the shine.

She gets lost in darkness, sunk in disbelief,

then she rolls back surrounded by a circle of colours,

and farther and farther — and the singing goes on …