Author of quotes: Absalom Underwater. Page 3

As a token of love and abundance
The Lord has given us Omnipotent
this might random encounters
when without flattery and effort
the Archangel spread his wings,
to rock us to save.

Winter triumphs in January
confident cold, serious faces
the people who carried out last year,
erased the memory of the leaves and the grass,
Blizzard, the danger of catching cold,
the need to eat honey.

The first of January the world is lazy and scattered,
the man stares as if into a new era
not knowing what will live, will come up and will be able
to remember, to forget, to access and to put an example.

Little, tiny miracle
can create and man
smiling from the heart
regardless of who you are and where
long or short your age
and where do you intend to go.

Catch epilepsy star
striving from the depths to the heights;
in a swamp will have a dream
and with her in the desert will start wandering.

I don't write poems, and just thinking
of life, located all around
and at a known distance,
I liken it to the loaf
but if it burns suddenly,
to Cook go to repentance.

Each of his words
habits and preferences,
likes and dislikes,
and your piece of land
where it lives and says, "Hello", -
those who do not spend in vain.

Secret can't put it into words
in the best case, lies between the lines.
The forest rustles my trees
and the stuffing is enclosed pie.

The soul is reflected in the music of the spheres,
pushing the worries of the daily commonplaces,
trouble ahead, trouble gone.
And flies, tilting barrier
my thought, on what not similar
and my dreams are crazy.

It's hard to say the first word
especially if it is the basis of
new thought, story, beliefs,
unusual prosody.

Language speaks through the poet,
the poet listens to the soul of nature,
and sees and hears the fate of the planet
in the silence of his people.

A real inspiration
visits the poet rarely, for the shrew,
the rest of the time
he writes poetry as it came.

To put it in words
the idea takes shape
essence scholars dispute
will boil in their minds
unspeakable the
only the poet's confusing.

Having been in my poems,
the words go on at the light
but I know that they have a home.