When the autumn comes

When autumn comes,

I miss my ancestors,

I miss the smoke from the hearth,

The small fruits,

The big tomatoes and hard pears,

I miss again my son’s birth,

I see the rare carts  passing towards histories,

I watch the horses and I feel allegories,

I watch the sky and I know starlings, bee-eaters,

Gather to attack the vineyard and the trees,

But today I have a dead-line

To an emergency work,

Up I see five storks

Surrounding- repeaters,

The maternity burned

By a smoker nurse,

And that piece of work couldn’t wait,

When autumn comes,

I miss the thistles,

I miss the stubble field, I miss my childhood,

I feel the pita bread increased in the oven on corncobs,

I hear the bell with wich, you mother, ring me,

I miss my friends, the grape must and the pastrama,

I know the way it is cooked, how to remove the juce,

How it must be put under a stallion saddle,

When my unicorn returns to his barn too,

I miss  sevruga, catfish or sterlet,

I miss the carp caught by chance, but the funebral fall

Walkes its dreaming on far horizons,

With Isis at the table it shares the calling

In hieroglyphic cartridge it writes my wish,

On altars wall to sprout my will.

When autumn comes,

I miss the filled barns

Whereby we mesured together

All the wheat from heaven and the poppies from lips,

I knew them by heart speaking out corn ,

Allways norc, ready to snow

With air threads from the dismounting grass

The rider from the saddle and the saddle form the day,

Running through blue vineyard fields,

With grapes overflowing with heavy sins,

Lying in barrels crushed by evil spirits,

Flying charmed through barren glades,

Aerated at body and slippery at mind,

Ready to take away my chain mail shirt,

You tailored me from final kisses,

Every night under the stars ashes.

When autumn comes I miss the earth,

The cold rains, the burning clay,

Kneaded by feet, by hooves, by wheels,

Turned into the white bones of the dead,

With all the locust of crosses and sins,

I miss the love, the moment that can

Bring back to life and field, but saints too,

With dip candle, with lights from parents,

With knell of bell in beginning of evening,

It smells like curd milk in trough

And like corn mush with boiled eggs in maize,

I see my grandfather with the string of heaven,

He took when he was alive, because he was lad

And with the Don river he struggled a little,

I can see him bending over the corn mush pieces,

To split them correctely to children…

And then over the house blossoms the apple tree again,

It is a long autumn again and it replenishes my porch

With all that is good, resistant and tasteful,

With human soul more and more beautiful!