Prompt:
CHILDHOOD, GARDENS, HEAT...
Yes, I was probably eight years old.
Childhood, summer, distant rear.
The house, the rumble and creaking of steam-window carts,
The heat, the gardens immersed in dust.
And a cheerful woman in our yard,
Boarder,
that's what her grandfather called her,
My cheeks started to burn in the morning,
No, I was only eight years old.
I laughed when she smiled
I chatted: there were no words yet,
And when she washed herself by the stream,
I chased the boys out of the bushes.
It's all a long time ago
but now I remember -
Night, adobe, without shutters, house.
I stood leaning against the rough wall,
Under her cheerful window.
He returned from the war -
I understood that
but she hugged him.
He, damn it, lifted her in his arms,
and she kissed him.
I didn't know why my hands were shaking.
It's quiet outside, it's dark.
sob and whisper,
Eh, how can I restrain myself here!
I hit the window with a stone.
Someone ran out:
- You?
I looked into her eyes.
as if in a dream I wanted to scream.
and then, as a disabled neighbor, I said:
- Well, fuck off...
And she pushed him away: - Go away.
This is Grandfather Nazar's grandson...
and pressed it to the open soft chest:
- Oh, my little, stupid friend...
I rushed
Climbed onto the roof and lay down
On my grandfather's threadbare carpet,
How can I grow overnight!..
Become strong!.. I could
repay her shame.
...Childhood, no, is not forgotten.
let time fly.
but it’s hard for me to be with you,
when the boy is next door
will look at us
with unforgiving childish melancholy.
He stands leaning against the whitewashed wall,
Black-eyed, gloomy, angry.
He will give his first jealousy to you,
Your childhood
gardens,
heat...
Artist
