***
An easel stands like a conductor in the empty cottage room,
With ease an easel faces listeners, invisible to all,
The abstract paintings that sit like the spectators on the walls,
Are waiting for the newborn to be born from oils.
The silence of an easel is the symphony of warmth,
The only way to hear ourselves is time-to-time to stop
To listen altogether, to adopt to walls and floors
That keep “to music” all alone, a silence can be heard.
An easel with a canvas – “An abandoned church”:
Trees grow through floors, the windows, on the walls,
Bushes take root directly in the nave,
Daises do dance in aisles, while swallows took the chancel for the pray.
Not only people worship, wave the arms and weep,
But also trees, but also paintings that live,
Look at the painting you meet – a real creature, feel it breathe,
The artist left her awe in every wrinkle of a streak.
I stand like a deserted church under the empty sky,
The shadow of the tree grows through my aching thigh,
Daisies dance in my eyes of liquid stained glass,
My blood – an earthy resin – moves, to move the heart.
