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Юлия Петрова (Москва) — поэт. Пишет на русском и английском языках.



Whiteness of snow, pure regret,
Clean sadness and frozen delights.
Sunlight is shorter as longer dark nights
Look — shadows are hiding behind.

Purity of words like peaks of the mountains,
Baby's first breath in its life;
Circle of life is lamplight in a window
But darkness is creeping inside...

Whiteness of paper, dark letters of fortune
Lead us unknown way;
Who are we rulled in this endless performance
In this everlasting play?

What are we doing, what are we waiting-
To take just another step?
In this book of signs which form every message
To keep us alive at sunset?



When snow is slowly drifting
While clouds are squeezed above
Some chosen by harmony gifted
Try to move others closed hearts.

Let snow flakes fly in the air
And glitter in darkness of night
They'll melt when they meet atmosphere
That keeps that concert inside.

While winter is weaving a blanket
For wrapping the Earth at night
This grand piano's discovered
Shall music play for delight?

Let sing this enormous body
When hands gently touch its keys,
Its soul can join everybody ,
Its heart can sense a pianist.

And glass outside like a mirror,
Inside it is not as ice-field
When these hearts are slowly melting
In a rhythm of nocturne by John Field.


* * *

What can you tell a dried butterfly
That hangs in my room
In a frame? —

How wonderful to be outside of these
Concrete pressing walls,
That frame my movements? —

How the light and fresh wind blow,
And flow, carrying you into the eternity,
Of a boundless sky?..

What can you tell a dying orchid
That artificial painful thing
That I see in a shop window?

How wet and rich a rainforest is
After warm rainy showers,
At night?..

Or how a dewdrop glitters
In the moon when a moth gently touches
Frail petals of a passioned flower...


* * *

Just a mysterious presence
To look through a shamrock at the world
When knights of the Emerald Army
Represent their culture for all.

A bright coloured parade for crowds
To feel own pleasure of fame
When on a stage above ground
Is focused attention of the day.

The purest crystal of soul
In shape of a Celtic cross —
To sense with all heart the beating,
A spring awaking rebirth.

Is this a present for a hero
Who could organize the day?
Gathering idols of present
For moment of this huge display?

Of country that is proud of growth
In this, very sunny day,
More than a marketing purpose
It is a cultural ray.

Ventage cars, Irish dogs, majorettes —
Performers of different kind.
Best moments for fighters remember
Warm welcome to Muscovites...


* * *

To forget all old dreams —
Try to build a new life,
Sometimes is —
The only way to survive.

To take easy things,
To live like a bird,
Not counting days,
Not to think you are old.

Just to watch play of rays
As continual round,
As perpetual circle
Of all changes around.
Sense the movement of stars,
Music harmony, nature —
You are the world for yourself
Not too tempted to questions.

To be tired of thoughts,
Worries, words or affairs?
Why? When silence is pure
And you hear sky spheres.


* * *

Do winds change their directions,
Does it depend on a mind —
Or something in your collection
You have to remove and refind?

Do faces show reflection, —
Like wings of a big butterfly,
Or maybe your heart needs connection
To form any other claims?

Does memory have any cellars
Or maybe attics or rooms,
Or you have to create some pillars —
To look for some other domes?

Why pines are so strong and prickly,
Maybe they form the pain?
What do you need for a violin —
To find a new tune and strain.



A burst of blooming, —
drops of snow.
A fussy — busy celebration, —
a lonely wintery starvation:
So different are hours of life,
while one is in attention,
The other strifes survive.

A mistlethrush and mistletoe
Have only misty word in common.
What is the mist — to be unknown,
Unclear, gloomy, water-snowy.

I liked the flower and the bird
They have their home in trees on top.
They can together meet the sun
And certainly have their charm.



He was an ordinary craftsman
With his own limits of good and evil
Who tried to get benefit of his work.
Once he felt nature of wood
And caught harmony of a shape.
But it was long ago —
When the sun was shining brightly
In one happy afternoon...
But this time passed
Shadows have grown and
Formed an image of an executioner
Whose axe gets heavier
While he gets weaker.
Once he will be colder than
His creations, which will be
Touched by astonished, greedy
Or angry hands, that will
Sing different songs in one voice.
His heart will be colder than
A stone tomb that may keep
Warmth of the sun
Even in a grave yard...



As closed as a seashell
With one unknown key,
Floating on waves
Of the eternal sea.

High and low tides,
Gleamy moon light,
Winds sing a lullaby
Everynight for me.

Shining brightly, light
Of the Moon beside
Lit memorial sights
Of my dreams behind.

From the time that flew
Of the things I knew,
Keeping on my mind,
Dying every night.

Harmony of sea,
Loneliness and me,
In the gleeful light
Beauty and Delight!



Oh my Lord, give me some power
To be a little stronger
To have some courage
To follow my way,

My destiny day by day,
Not to be upset but thankful
With all I have
Some strength not to hate,

Weakness that chooses
Everytime a way round
Not to cross what are my bounds
Of the day. Tell me — I may, you may...

Give me a different clear view of levels
To follow as you could.
Not to be tempted
By all evils.

Do not errect attractive idols
In my sight.
Give me a sign
To follow your light.



When the bright yellow of the spring
Shines through blue transparent air of the sky
It makes tender the green colour of new born leaves
And gives a joy of blooming to every flower
But if the sun is too hot —
It adds more paint, it forms pain

As leaves absorb too much warmth in answer
To its passion, and it kills them, and they die —
Red-painted, with brown buried edges
While blue cold winds make them even colder
And drier - easy to be cast away from
Their cherished branches but fly like
The sparkles from a burning fire in an effort
To catch its own reflection,
To make its own circle, to frame the seasons.

The sun doesn't give them a warmth over time,
It has to be in every place providing illumination,
Or maybe it also needs contrasts to complete its circle.
It needs movement to include in it all things around
To make its own sunny seasons,
To provide its own majestic sense.

And the leaves they have already found themselves
Whiting this realm, now, to be thrown, trod on and forgotten. They are brown as the trunk of the tree
That gave them birth, as the soil
That receives and gives.

Dry lips, ready to drink polluted,
Salty tears or sinned blood, everything
That flows, to give a movement
To rivers in spring, to declare its own temperament.
To its own circle, to embrace all things around.
To frame its own watery seasons.

Cycle in cycle, life in life,
Movement in movement all around.
Everything inside, contained, and
Everything, out of sight, released, retreating
To its own sense of survival.
To return the reflection of a grasped curved
Ray of sun bearing energy to go its own
Chosen way to a death, framed in its circle.