The Scent of Azazello's Gift

The yellow flowers were the first betrayal, An aroma of dead hopes upon the street. I touch the ointment to the temple bone, And feel the pulse begin to skip and beat. The skin is turning cool and clear as glass, A sulphur-bloom across the tired eyes. The heavy years begin to fade and pass, As I prepare to claim the open skies. Invisible! I am a needle of light! Shedding the gravity of the mundane! I gallop along the skin of the night, Free from the memory of pain! The Tver-side roofs are spinning in a whorl, A vortex of the patterns we once knew. The city is a map that I uncurl, Drenched in a deep and bruised-up shade of blue. The slippers fall away into the mud, As ancient magic wakes the dormant blood. I leave the 'I' within the looking-glass, And watch the world of tired sleepers pass. Invisible! I am a needle of light! Shedding the gravity of the mundane! I gallop along the skin of the night, Free from the memory of pain!