Mosaic of Road Encounters

Mosaic of Road Encounters
Trees called “Rebecca”…

Basil Dovlyku…

We do not hurry – circles on water

Swim innately, cleanly, unidly.

And shine the willow of wrinkled water

This incomparable, inimitable miracle.

and flow time, through the heart of time.

And milk from a jug of soul.

and touching the word. The word is the order,

Which I have to swim through a bottomless age.

And whispering, and the legions, and sadness.

And the web of my changing days.

And the snow flies – and as we are sorry,

Because it is cold in cosmic poverty.

To the glass I am cold rain,

And I’m stranded on the salt of the dense epoch.

Who will increase the words of the word – do not forgive,

For I will not forgive this era.

Was the evening. Cold Kiev evening. Thousands or hundreds. When you stay on the emptiness-distance to the train. When all are concerned with the ecumenical ideas and Unhostile deeds. And only two frozen silbles on the white Gillytsy are amazed with the flicker of the first snow and the flare of the solar sadness on the diamond branches. And – Suddenly, through the flicker of snow – someone’s “dobrynin” unexpectedly split snow silence.

I hold an unexpected Ruchenyatko word, as a branch of the dead snow. Generous openness of Vasyl Dovoka’s smile – and conversation, conversation, conversation – in unison wind or the twinkling of the evening lantern. There is also a leaf for the soul – where you can warm up the soul, where you can get drunk with tea, where the steps of the evening staircase are used by Valery Herasyasymchuk.

They settle the incense of pine and thin thread of conversation sparkle with unexpected flickering. Somehow, to memorize this moment and this story by Vasyl Dovhka: About trees near the premises of our Union on the tank, 2; On which the frozen sibles, which planted the light memory of Vladimir Pyatov; And the mysterious name of the tree “Rebecca”, which should be a must remember, because nowhere in Ukraine there are no more such, in the courtyard of our Union; And that Nina Hnatiuk does not respond to mobile phone poguki; And about someone’s literary evening, which took place recently…

We buy a velvet shemashing voice of Basil. Mentally worship the memory of Vladimir Piyanova because I see as his swaying in the beat of the wind of the tree, which were blessed on the world by his palms, as a crewing of the longing branches – because, maybe, it is his ducat, it bursts their wings.

Vasyl Dovyk is a writer who has combined a rare gift of a writer and actor. Artist in the word, spiritual reader of the acting. And then deep, even Praruke, the feeling of sound lives in his speech by a thin membrane.

and unexpectedly, the unknown film chords in the memory, in which an ancient Rusych, podpered edge, in a shirt on the release, drink from a pitcher of dense milk, which runs on his side, the claws of the inguinal pea. Drinks as delicious as I have the current conversation in a great night’s favor.

Two of the sibles are squusing bread crumbs from our palms. The bald, somewhere the bread is and tastier, but no one will give it to such overflowing generosity. Their beak is bitten by my fingers, Frost falls on the hair. Something keeps us near this House with the eloquent name – “Our Union”. Evidently, it is a tree with the eloquent names of “Rebecca”. And the souls of those who are cautious for them.

A kaleidoscope of stories like crispy on the cherries of Shevchenko. Burn and Turbo. Somewhere near Ivan Perepelyak with a great ability to open the people of Apostolic teachings. And for some time it is conceived whether people need this doctrine. And at the biggest moment of doubt: Vasilko Squino shakes his head. Mankind is even more expensive to the great discoveries – as the roads to storms of the May trees.

… Transcarpathian Cognac in amber Keloshky and Zokiv wheels, and somewhere a long-distance treasure of agriculture and a uncle with the legs: “Hatya!” Myself! ”

And it is necessary to drive among the snowy trees, between Siniččinim dzjbonninem, between the treasure of carriages, among the saplings, which are called so rare “re Beck”, among the memory and eternity, between the eternal circular days, among the farewell smile. Vladimir Piaznova and Pečalnim anointed his hands. And you are in between the knock of the rolling wheels, and an indelible desire to stop the instant, which is rapidly flying among the fingers of the spring dzurkopitnyh streams.

And the desire to talk is stronger than a conversation. For the same village uncle with one-the only advice of Gvidkom is in memory. Not from him you, a basil, recreated the color of the swan herd of the immortal Basil Countryman. You are like a long-legged crane, which is a pole near my wagon, covering with their wings.

I’m no longer cold in this permering city. Smells like mint and thyme, and the spirit of pine, I should throw the palms of the tree of Vladimir Piaznova. And yet – Ivan Perepelyak, from which the energetic confidence and young heroism are shaking. Lyboj, Prince Ihor still traveled to the Kharkiv region, as well as a Grijsko Skovoroda to give their immortal rods of sky and stars.

So Davn waiting for me Slobozhanschyna anointed the hands of school mates Lyuba Lemashuk. And her gullible: “Write, when you come, I will meet the exit… The apartment is renovated, waiting for you… ”

And for some reason we are in memory of funeral wreaths: For the first time I see so many people and wreaths, smelling needles, as on the new Year. And my mother holds my palm, and I do not understand why this lyuba cries over the box, the delusional flowers. And I will ring the voice of my mother: “To remembered, as the father of the loved to hide…” I still do not know that the burying can not only half of the sucking candy – “on then”; White-bread marten for the cue and a piece of color fabric for the homemade doll…

The word “hide” now will be a chill for me.

And Lyuba today is so far from me, so alienated. And I am longing for my hand to be frightened by the sparrows. And now to anyone to be blunt. Except for this conversation and to knock the rolling wheels, and to the Siniččinogo of a beggar, and…

“Follow me,” Ivan Mykolaychyk is suddenly out of memory, memory, as the winter trees are in a cold evening. So he called Vasyl Dovekka, and the call is carved into the silence of the winter evening of the stellar glow.

That he put into his own words…-conceived to say Vasylko and Lelewhy is surprised in the scrolls of his memory.

– John I met on the steps of the subway. In a long leather raincoats… He called me, “Follow me…”

Is it difficult to go mykolayychany? Ask the tree with the strange names of “Rebecca”; In the weary cheese, which gratefully tickles my fingers to his beak, in a Basil’s voice, which knows so much about our time and our literature; And even more – feels.

Mariya Yakubovskaya

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