Valery Kourinsky

02.10.99

POSTPONED LIFE

There is the sin of a postponed life.
We all are often sinner in that sense.
There is an ailment of delayed existence.
And all of us are tortured by its fits.
Today is not today in many case,
today is what will not occurs tomorrow,
what will be recollected thereat,
where pain caused by the lost content
commands to cheat ourselves and feign
the absence of the illness of postponed life.
And so poorly we live as if not here,
and so deaf are now for the music
of finest lines invented by the bows,
by swings of branches and by flight of moon,
which is by sights of lovers slowed?
by the snowy seconds falling like the toys
from Christmas tree, from hinges of the fairy-tale
continued by the generations of the children,
with years pretending suddenly to be the fathers.
There is a fear of postponed life,
of dangerously thrown away presumptions,
the bold suggestions that are concerned about this while,
the very this, the shrinked without attention,
which we owe to it, we, the ever-forgetting
about the alchemistry of happiness
about elixir-stone of seized opportunities
(that must outweigh the all our might-have-beens)
There is lost richness of postponed life.
The millions of suns are destroyed by nonchalant movements
of our half-empty "nows", the muscles of which
are deprived of needed force to lift the lucky future.
The gold reserve of our best memories then is not recruited
by the chimes of immediateness,
by the touches of feeling to just real reality.

There is a death named postponed life.