Somewhere In the Middle of a Desert

In the bleached whitish sky I am flying on a bellied pelican, contemplating from above a pastoral landscape and I’m writing these lines. Below are small people on the slopes of a small hill in the small groves are making small love. Unaware of the big people, who are making a huge love in the big groves on the slopes of a tall mountain. In the distance, you can see smeared cypresses and Lebanese cedars, and scrolls - Psalms of David. They may heal diseases, twigs, and rat bites. And the rearrangement of the mysterious letters in the Kabbalistic text, which are secrets of my secret. The sweet pink pulp of fresh figs in purple and burgundy colors comfortably resting on a platter with a scorpion seal. Shulamith, the hot stones of the Judean desert are under your feet, on the way to the Temple, which is washed with expensive blood or a cheap one. (choose as you wish...). Could I find you in the torn apart Petrograd? Forgetting myself, I am weaving fate from a rope of lasso. How beautiful you are, Fata Morgana. I'm hiding in a blue papyrus, plunging forever into Nirvana, for the next hour and a half ... 9.2019. NYC