Monk
(Words-written by a friend (Plamen Sivov). Music is mine.)
On the steep paths of the soul
the climbing was in the deep.
I stumped absently in the life
and carved whistles of the beam in my eye.
I was passing evanescent trough the years
with a speed exceeded by frustration.
The peak was another word for disgrace,
in the bottom - eagle feathers.
My soul did not tolerate the fumigation,
the incense in the lungs choked me.
My fault boiled in inconsolable bells,
the prayer expired from the sleeves,
it flew away, but never transferred
the window, smoked by requiems.
Wandered off to the altar, startled the pigeon,
burned itself in the candles and hushed…
And I had no home and I had no household,
and I loused alone my doubts
and I believed, to last I believed that to the wise one
the home is a quiet shipwreck.
Now I laugh, I slowly figure out
the joke with the age and with the times -
when God bleaches us to the snowwhite
the blanching starts from the hair.
The days before me blow over in repentance
behind me the directions are flowing in a white point -
and merrily I forget all the wounds
of the falling downs pronely and on temples.
To fall, and then be raised again -
it is a mercy, when you think ...
on the steep paths of the soul
survival skill is the stumbling.
***
But the summer strikes its hat
and with a thin stick tapps its way.
I will leave early - to lap the sunrise
to the steep rainbow I will upwander,
and I will sing out : I come My Lord, meet me
under the hill with the silent trees
where I am rushing to feed Thy birds
with the prayer from Thee unaccepted.
And if it is the silence You wanted from me,
don't put anymore coals in my mouth.
Leave for me the quiet, but with prayer
rejoice the nightingale hushed in the fog.