Star Dust Zen

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Nothing extra! Only necessary.
Look at this bleak watercolor raining evening.
Look at the passers-by under umbrellas.
Look at the the tram, at his faded sides.
They used to be crimson.
There's the girl stuck her forehead to the window.
There's the couple whispers about love.
There's an angel working as a conductor.

The Silence lives in your house.
Your kids have grown up.
Your books grow old silently and smell sweet for some reason.
You burn patchouli sticks and cook blackberry compote.
Firewood crackles in the fire, blazing merrily.
The White Man* whispering something to you.
But you don't care.


The walls are painted with lime.
It smells dry and cozy here.
It smells like somebody lives here
even when you haven't been here for months.
There's a huge nut tree close to the window.
It covers your dad's apiary.
You like to watch dewdrops on the bark and leaves.

You know, we are always different, like water.
We're unique like snowflakes.
We're captured by reincarnation vicious circle.
Why?
Because we're made of star dust.
We're superpositions of Psych field .
We're batch transmission of oscillations encoded by a binary code.
No one could decipher it so far.
Even Gods.

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© Copyright: Валентин Лученко, 2020