The Lost Saves / Потерянные сейвы (цикл стихов на английском)⁠⁠

повыебываемся
Сразу говорю, что мой английский далек от идеала, и эти тексты предполагались как вызов самому себе. Художественную ценность определите сами. Плюсиков всем, кто любезно укажет на грамматические/лексические ошибки.

I

— We turn to rust when I see you from the other room.

[time: 24/7
place: office]

So here you are, my personal apocalypse.
Our warden insists to conceal the unusual talents:
The work should be fair as it matches unwritten values
Rebranding the Truth by the methods of compromise.

The islands of plants decorated with pseudomarbles
(I set them on fire in one of my tearless nightmares),
The world tries to hide me from my say-no-word disaster,
But efforts are vain ‘cause no one can dissect my eyes.

You coming and leaving resembles the pulsar star
Who died but still playing its fragile repertoire.
My sorrowful anthems are sequel to every scar
I left on the glass and then doubled inside the heart.

I’m watching and watching, I’m losing the ways of time,
The sunlight is searching for you to impute the crime,
I’ve never remembered correctly the final rhyme,
So gave it a chance to be found in your regard.

II

— Your screaming soul; how did you try to touch me?

[time: past january
place: near the park]

Polaris in the mirror refused to bring us on,
My demi-silver iris spilt on the lacquered snow.
I may admit the version that you were just a clone,
But it’s just one of dozens assumptions in a row.

The critical background is longing to uprise:
It’s only me who keeps it confined within the eve.
My memory is perfect for such an enterprise
Which ended by the insight that fire needs to breathe.

Calendulas of winter, they grow despite our will,
The silent stop is lighted with pale anxious shine.
The winds that want me down and instigate my guilt
Has doomed themselves performing suites of broken spine.

My sanity is mythic: that’s what I understood.
You’ll never figure out which key is not a bomb,
So I accept the challenge to drink the solitude
Beyond the nameless streetlights, beneath the snow tomb.

III

— Glassy eyes, chrome nerves and an issue to address.

[time: one summer's day
place: childhood]

Unintended are visions this weary day,
Prior images of the mourning.
Once you said that the Moon and the Sun began
With the capitals; what an honour!

I’ve been trying as hell (is it not enough?)
To demark no-more-real places.
Every pavement is curving its way to thrive
In the moorlands with asphalt lacing.

Both the weepers and fountains want the same:
To get rid of the nervous water.
Way is better to give it a little flame,
I am sure, no one will notice.

Ink’s been flowing ruthless amongst my veins
Since I tried to reprint the Thesis
(I may secretly tell you that it remains
When horizons are torn to pieces).

Who has drowned the wayward profound skies
But the august, the month of liars?

I’ve been catching the emerald dragonflies
But entangled the dragonflyers.

(c) Average Gnoll
soundtrack: Fall of the Leafe