XXLove letters

 

 

 

When rigor mortis of a soul is winter,

 

 

The morning sky was covered with fleeting clouds,

I didn’t take an umbrella with me,

I wasn’t ready to face torrents of heavenly passions,

I strongly hoped,

If it rained, drops would be weightless,

Staining coats and pavements,

I would hide in a random café and study the art of human mind,

Among other rain refugees,

 

Not looking up, not thinking down I crossed la rue de Dantzig,

Whizzing cars ran like dopey hounds,

The urban landscape changed,

The moment I ran into a giant,

It was sculptor Guillaume,

I was surprised,

You won’t believe me,

He still rent in La Ruche,

It’s the only place where he feels totally free,

 

Desperate sculptors and writers’ shelter,

The paradise of low rent,

Its faithful clients are poets and painters,

It’s a two-story building with the weirdest roof I’ve ever seen,

Piles of sketches are everywhere,

A tub of clay is always handy,

The landlord is the kindest person,

Sometimes he forgets the most hated word,

Here it's ever 'rent',

 

You know one day when we are very old,

We will remember one lawn,

It won’t be green and sunny,

It won’t be neat and well-mowed,

There won’t be a yard swing lulling to sleep in its lap,

Singing a love song to a rose as if it was a bunny,

The common sign of passionate love,

 

You know one day when we are very old,

We will remember one lawn,

Here and there sculptures are scattered,

The second-floor windows are broken,

A violin hums low notes,   

Fallen leaves lie on icy grass,

They are summer nonsense,

Rigor mortis is a winter song,

 

Too many memories,

Too many faces are crammed into my head,

I’m tired to dull my senses,

I go to bed,

The body is cold,

I lie on a bed of nails.