Alexander Meshkoff

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The Secret Life Of Stone

Sometimes I hear
Like blood at your veins stops,
Like sensual light in your picturesque eyes fades away
And the familiar colours of life,
Attenuating to the total transparency,
With relief, leave your motionless body;
And you simply and majestically repose like a fraction of weighty granite,
Unknown carvers cut all unnecessary off from and left just you.
At those moments I think:
Here it is — a secret life of stone.

And then I say to myself:
My granite, my fossil coal,
Maybe, the part that was cut from you off, is it me?
Otherwise, why do I feel myself like a pile of macadam,
Like a heap of fragments, like a placer of razor-edged shatters?
What if I’ll take and append one to you?

Perchance, the point of split
Can repeat the contour of your back,
Curve of your shoulder,
Line of your neck,
Some other hillocks and pits,
Grooves and hollows of your body?

What if so and that can happen?
You never know when Fortune smiles.
Then maybe we should have braveness,
Inhale with an excess of this inebriant air
And bring back all on its place.
Let’s bring back what was cut off,
To become a primordial stone,
A magnetic dolmen,
Which is, lonely and hopelessly, laid
Amid a wild unnamed steppe,
Enveloped in moss like a seraphim in flame.

How do you find this idea, huh?

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