Artemis on the eve of the rain
The stone is cold,
A hand touches the arrows
Before the storm.
The leaves turn yellow,
Diana looks deep into the
Gray sky.
The muse has frozen,
The wind disturbs the fog
In the lush garden.
The huntress's gaze
Catches the first drop
Against the background of gold.
Shadows fall,
The rough texture of the shoulder
Remembers the summer.
A lonely statue
Among the frozen alleys
Waits for the downpour.
Arrows in the quiver
No one will take anymore,
Autumn reigns.
The clouds are getting heavier,
A pale marble forehead
Shines through the twilight.
The sun has hidden,
The bright crowns of the trees
Extinguish in silence.
Moisture in the air,
Artemis has frozen
In anticipation of water.
The glow fades,
The contrast of stone and forest
Harms my eye.
The park falls asleep,
The last warm chord
Will wash away this rain.
The graphics of the branches
Like deep scars
In the silent sky.
Drop by drop
The stone becomes alive,
Washed with longing.
The bow has fallen,
The goddess takes rest
On the autumn night.
The cap is closed,
Art is silent again
In the empty house.
Black strokes
Will become ordinary dirt
In the flow of years.
An attempt to immortalize
A moment that has long passed
Always loses.
A mute portrait
Will never answer
Your questions.
The artist goes away,
Leaving
A part of the soul on the table.
Beauty has frozen,
It has no breath,
It is just a mask.
The colors of ShadeFlowers
Will burn in the fire of oblivion,
Like wild gardens.
Each detail
The end of
This conversation is approaching.
The master holds
A pen over a white shroud,
As if over a coffin.
A thin handle,
A weave of graphics and dreams,
Doomed to fade.
Eyelashes raised,
But these eyes will not see
The whole real world.
The light on the skin
Only an illusion of the sun
In a gloomy room
The hand draws
But cannot stop
The clock on the wall
You create an image
To deceive your sadness
For a few moments
The paper will turn yellow
Shadows and hopes will fade
Dust will remain
The sword behind the shoulders
Will not protect anyone
It is just a stroke
Cold lines
Try to catch passion
But catch only emptiness
The look of the drawing
Looks simply into nowhere
Looks for life
A sharp pen
Draws the outline of a face
That is not there
Black ink
Lies on a blank sheet
To be washed away by the rain.