How is it possible to return there, from where it’s impossible to return, never?



When crowns of trees, trunks-bodies, hands of branches,… Oh, Cora?! Branches, having the beginning, found here a daybreak dew, sky, eternity, cover, giving warmth in return for emptiness, but not in death. Oh, Cora! Dampness, moisture, evaporation, mist, railings, stone, and text in every name. Orpheus hastens to Eurydice, to the Kingdom of Eternity, drawing under compulsion or not? Shadows of muses, round dance of birds, flowers, to look back, no strength to be found. Wonderful landscape, trees make to follow them up, but an eye meekly seeks for the roots, it makes a strange impression, the inner measure of everything is brought to the absolute, the verge of forepossible.
The tradition of walking through the city cemeteries has almost disappeared, like the tradition itself. The space of the city has included the space of cemeteries,

like a small prototype of lines, roads, columns, railings and buildings. Names of the bygones are lost among us, life by means of life, it's undoubtful, but the difference of the inner space lies in the predominance of flora over fauna and not visa versa. Rage of nature, the process of decomposition is finished, losses are irreplaceable, the town is in the power of plants chaos. Neither robberies of post-revolution vandals, authorities-Bolsheviks of museums, nor new burials can destroy the inner atmosphere that is the reflection of perishability, interchangeability; he is a bush, not you, you have time, years, minutes, thought-second, flower, which you bring to him. That is perennial, what is in the power of itself, or God of Time, who so impeccably supports your grandfather’s name, inscribed on the green-grey stone, with trunks of trees. But there is the world and meek is your feeling, crossing parallels, measuring with slow pace meridians of families-seeds, buried in a row, scarcely next to each other, they are gone, the text on the gravestone, epitaph reads “Circle after circle, you and me are not immortal”, what a pun, what a mystery. Celluloid flowers are gifts to themselves, “roses, violets, crocuses, hyacinths”, there is no geography, everyone, who lives, is already Persephone, and again the words from Homer’s anthem resound “… when suddenly the ground split open…”. Imagination can’t put up with the narration of gravestones,

I believe, that in a big city everything can happen, stones-buildings keep silence. “There’re no similar deceases”, say the voices of the bygones from behind,

in your head and in your wet mind, - imagination. This muddle, ripples, contrast, cast iron lines of railings, bindweed, fern, secular trees, broken by wind, tightness of time, something flies up, bird?, park, city, coat of arm. Passing by a grave, opened by “time”, a narrow black hole, window draws, night is coming, time to go home. Like Callimach of Corinth, having returned from the walk, I drink milk-wine, bars of photographs are scattered all around, I rake up my thoughts, like rustling leaves. Burn! Trying to cope, to straighten the spent day, I go to look for my lost town.

Dmitry Sirotkin / Zemsky