A sleeping consciousness paints pictures ...
I remember only one thing, and the eyes,
Were like taut flax strings,
Dug into me with sharp sockets,
Burned until white, almost ...
And there were multitudes,
From a third, from two, and from me, and all of them, lost in souls,
Turned into gray crystals, melted, melted ...
... And I’ve already fallen asleep ...
For now ...
And the ancient river froze ...
From poetry and light,
I’ll make brushes,
Paint clouds and dough,
So that the mistress will bake in the morning,
For good evening,
I’ll write words ...
And I’ll die at sunset,
Not far from the crossroads on the Boulevard des Capucines,
In the very heart of Italy ...
I don’t want to say goodbye to anyone,
But simply draw a line
From the black impostor,
Crushing snake ...
And almost reaching the bridge, I wave my handkerchief
To the golden-domed island,
Which I dreamed of ...
Well, and then ...
At dawn I dive into the water,
I remember that I was a man ...
And now I look at the moon,
As ancient as the earth ...
About myself, who once lived ...
I read and look at the face distorted by death,
Now dead,
And does not sleep, but is turned to eternity ...
Perhaps I will be a Caucasian, a highlander, or a Kazan citizen ...
I remember that I was an impostor,
Freed from the shackles ...
Sometimes there comes a time when there is no time for anything ...
Sometimes a mountain falls down,
Curling up like a snail,
Absorbing the world to give birth to a point ...
I no longer remember the world,
But I so wanted to love ...
On the death of Nabokov ...
Not to take and not to feed,
I will have to not resign myself ...
… to the fact that I could have closed the door
hid, surrendered
And washed myself ...
With water from a black well,
And there on the ice a girl dances “la” ...
I know it’s my last cigarette ...
But what to do when the smoke looks like a butterfly
From an ancient tribe ...
Not free, But along the edge,
Not to run, but to fall
Into the darkness, but into the water ...
And there the seal keeps swirling,
Dragging me down,
And my lungs fill with air, dead and lifeless
And I will become a ghost ...
Nasta Martyn is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator, poet, and writer. She graduated from the Academy of Slavic Cultures and has a bachelor’s degree in design. She is currently pursuing a master’s degree in art history. In 2005, she created a series of graphics dedicated to the Chernobyl disaster, and in the same year, she wrote the series The Red Book. In 2022, she participated in international exhibitions in China, Taiwan, and the United States. In 2024, she received the Jury’s Special Prize for her poster in China.
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