*** Besides the poems, What do I like to do? Hmmm... Hunting! Hunting your eyes, of course, To ward off homesickness. They are my horse-drawn vehicles On rutted and foggy…
*** Black rainstorm - warning signal, alarm bells about our changing climate, rain as a sign of the apocalypse, exceptional cold over my Siberia, where average temperatures reached as low…
*** In the emptiness of the lemon gardens, The afternoon sunshine uncages a smile. Not far behind, There is snow and the Volga iced, Every couple of meters you see…
*** It paves roads where previously there were none. It attracts people to the inner shores, Mortals who would otherwise be at dinners: Restaurant waiters, joggers, risk-seekers. The bluish mist…
*** The eyes, which promised magic, Fleetingly become alive Projected on the facades of presepi, The aprons Of Italian wives. The eyes, which harboured fealty, Jump on the snow sledge…
*** We invent scenes and characters That don’t exist, We replay history with alternative outcomes, We envision social and love utopias, We revel in imagination and arts, And we muse…
*** Before the night falls, A process above thought - I see the ballerina’s leg move, Ideas don't occur In abstract form, They come in bodies. The moment when the…
*** Snow is a blank blanket, A clean canvas, Obscuring what lies beneath it, Snow is a poem of the air. Snow was my first material For sculpture From early…
*** Something rather private, For reasons that are mysterious, Nothing but small waves In the sea of speeches. Nature as witness of freedom, And nature as verification of failure, Will…
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