Post-Magic Wine-Butterfly-Snow

You are a young playful wine, I am a cognac aged for thirty years.
Our planets are in anti-phase configurations.
Our life paths have taken parallel courses.
There's nothing one can do, it's Euclidean geometry,
Gauss-Lobachevsky needs other times, spaces, speeds.
Forgive me if you can.
And try to understand this piece of life in its bizarre weaving.
This play has finished. Outplayed.
It's time to wash off makeup and drink some tea with lemon balm.
Butterflies straighten out of the crypts.
They fly to drink nectar, to mate, to lay testicles, to dye. They are dying.
The following year, the caterpillars would peel from the testicles.
They're so greedy chewing leaves and always crawling somewhere
and grows all the time well, somehow already quite wildly.
And then aha! They disappear into silky threads
just waving the house_of_the_butterfly's_being.
The Life's Dragon, why do you need such a metaphor?

It snowed yesterday.
It's snowing now.
God knows where snowfall would end.
Where are you, buddy?
Do you drink red wine or warm your hands with a cup of tea?
I'm here in a remote village.
I'm walking up the hill.
I'm pulling sledges with my younger daughter.
I'm happy.
We're smiling.
We are aliens here:
me and my daughter.
We're climbing up the sloping hill.


© Copyright: Valentin Luchenko, 2020