Poems,stories and pictures by Irina Mouravleva.
1.
В танце далеком
Ты ворон, шаман,
Сверкает звезда под луною.
She was young and beautiful, graduated from school and had all plans put together for the new chapter of her life in mastering what people "healing with witchcraft". She was only a woman in her family and her "road" was designed for her before she was born.
"Go to university first", - her father, warlock himself, said. He was educated himself, and proper education, this what he admired first. People without proper spiritual cleaning, education, even good talkers, meant nothing to him. He was old fashioned and high in his magic position and opinion.
War united them... Second World War united people who would never met in the real life. And twisted their lives in some strange magnificent circle where everything gets connected by invisible special power. When millions of personal stories becomes one and stay one may be forever.
Four shining lights.
Snow, snow, snow… little flakes are drifting down on the road outside my window.
It is January. Dreamy hour at work again. This is what snowstorms create, quiet, romantic, unreal time when you want to think about far away moments, smooth, warm and cold like the weather outside and endless with all the dreams still where they are.
In falling snow, I always think of him.
Although we met in summer, snowflakes remind me of him more than sunlight ever could. Cold, distant, yet caring and strangely happy.
Chapter 1
Chocolate People
The old women seemed deeply troubled. The older they were, the more grief was etched into their faces. The eldest bit her lips, frozen in place, one hand covering her mouth.
Chapter 7.
Echo across the river.
We spent every summer here before the Revolution.
We were standing on a small hill overlooking the river and a young pine forest that had been planted only a few years earlier. The tiny trees stretched across the blue sky like thin green lines.
Chapter 6.
Different Eyes
It was summer when I began learning about herbs.
Chapter 5.
Another Man
Another man came over and started talking.
1.
Она играла на пианино
Всегда задирая рукав.
И номер рыже синий
Как будто с ней тоже играл.
Я папа первой не стала,
И даже не стала второй.
Я просто пришла с вокзала,
Я просто пришла домой.
Сижу шевелиться не смею,
Есть час еще про запас.
И час закружится в вальсе волшебном,
Напомнив нам что-то в тысячный раз.
Снег на березах, клуб у дороги,
Кружаться пары и папа играет нам вальс.
Мальчик красивый танцует со мною, но только несмотрит в глаза.
Весенней порою, военной тропою,
Уйдет он в болота, леса.
Хороших знакомых сын.
Папа смеется, играет,
Давно за нас все решил.
Зима пролетела и лето.
А осень в пожарах была.
Горел старый клуб,
Забывшийся вдруг старый рояль.
Война в город наш пришла.
И ночью холодной
И в серости дня.
В холодном бараке, всегда.
Закрою глаза и слышу я вальс,
С мальчишкой кружась до утра.
Chapter 1.
Old House.
My old house stood outside a small city. Somewhere far away, between two train stations and two rivers.
It stood among farmland, forests, and gardens that were together for hundreds of years, like invisible guards watching over the whole our region wich was older then thousand of years according to found historical objects.
How many times did I come here?
And how many times I did not want to come here.
I was very young, almost a child, and those days felt as though they would last forever.
My grandmother is reading a book. My great-grandmother is sitting quietly, looking out the window. She was always at the window, it was her favorite place when she was at home.
Я хорошо помню этот день, точнее вечер, а еще точнее почти ночь. 9 марта 2014 года, воскресенье. Если забежать вперед и сложить 9 + 3 + 2014 будет 2026, сегодня, но это длинная по времени и пространству история.
9 марта я и отец моего ребенка ехали в машине и ругались из-за денег.
Я поставила диск с военными песнями что бы не слушать его.
