With a resinous tread, the night seeps through the treetops, unveiling its feline eye. Its dim light spreads across the earth and reveals a winding path — a jagged scar on the body of the slumbering world. The light congeals on the pitch-black canvas of the sky, and its ghostly spray drips in patches, like milk spilled on black velvet. Everything — from the threshold to God — is filled with this viscous, soundless darkness.
I would sing you a song, quiet as the rustle of fallen leaves, so it would catch your sorrow and carry it to other lands. But where there is no "close," there is no "far" either.
I am alone. We are alone, like this moon. Between us — the night, black and absolute, like the pupil of a blind man.
So fall asleep. Plunge into a dream, deeper than this darkness. The dream will show the path. Sleep until you find it. Until you find the way.
With a resinous tread, the night seeps through the treetops, unveiling its feline eye. Its dim light spreads across the earth and reveals a winding path — a jagged scar on the body of the slumbering world.
Slava Nesterov