“Hardest stones on highest roads
Pave the path to freedom”,
Such by nomads I’ve been told,
Oracles of Eden.

Gypsy women took my hand:
“You must find the twins”.
Folding carousels of sand:
Pages, palms, and wings.

Weathers change and seasons die;
Sky turns black, blue, gray.
But my wind, my violin’s cry
Always blows your way.

Reins let go. My horses stop.
With forgotten grace,
Up there on a mountain top,
Maidens wash your face.

Everything is here and now
As I kneel before you.
Not to you, to God I vow
Быть всегда с тобою.

January 2018-2019