Дмитрий Алёхин – 400 Poems (страница 6)

A simple chore, a quiet beat,

A folding hands, a job complete.

The Old Photograph

A paper square, a color gone,

A moment that is moving on.

A face I know, a smile so wide,

A younger me with nothing to hide.

I look at it and feel the years,

The joy, the love, the tiny fears.

The moment lives, though time has passed,

The photograph holds it fast.

The Sound of Wind

The wind is talking through the trees,

It makes a sound that sounds like seas.

It comes from far, I do not know,

A place that has no sun or snow.

I close my eyes and let it speak,

A language soft, a language weak.

I do not understand the words,

But I am heard, but I am heard.

A Piece of String

A piece of string, so long, so thin,

What can I make? What can begin?

A bracelet for a friend I love,

A little gift from up above.

I tie a knot, I make a loop,

A tiny circle, a small group.

The string is cheap, the worth is high,

It means: I saw you, you and I.

The Empty Page

The page is white, the pen is black,

There is no going back.

I do not know what words will come,

My mind is quiet, almost numb.

But then a line, and then a word,

A sound I faintly heard.

The empty page becomes a friend,

It helps my heart to mend.

Rain Boots

I put my rain boots on my feet,

And jump in puddles on the street.

The water splashes, high and low,

A little joy that children know.

I am not young, but who decides

That joy must hide, that joy must hide?

The rain boots make a happy sound,

The joy is found, the joy is found.

The Lamp at Night

A single lamp beside my bed,

A circle of soft yellow spread.

It keeps the monsters far away,

And helps me make it through the day.

I read a book, I write a line,

This little light is mine, all mine.

When morning comes, it fades away,

But it comes back at end of day.

The Baker's Window

I pass the shop, I stop and stare,

The breads are lined with so much care.

A round one here, a long one there,

The smell of flour fills the air.

I cannot buy, I have no need,

But just to look is good indeed.

The baker works with flour and yeast,

A quiet art, a daily feast.