Translated by Max Nemtsov

THE WAR WITH THE DEMON IN THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

The resurrection surmounting the gigantic Kingdom of heaven with the death of the last sky the smallest one with the premonitions of victory by victors, beautiful celebrations, ugly farewells of lonelinesses to the war of the motherland to the motherland, a strange land to a strange land, supple is the whirlwind in the hurricane branches, the merciless pity, the meekness of anger, the doors and the doors, the islets of soul multiply on the surface of a body, as the shadows and shadows of daytime stars multiply in the night sun, protect the kin from the kin, defend strangers against strangers, love to the love, love to unlove, stop the heart, live alone.

In the Kingdom of heaven there gather the host of Resurrections of a body from a body, a soul from a soul, it’s not you who were born, your body, your soul were born before you, their shadows were Resurrected to you, and the shadows didn’t have any place to bow their heads, the earth’s not on earth, the Kingdom of heaven’s not in the skies, a living soul doesn’t leave a dead body, it shuts itself within the body, crumbling to dust with it, the crumbles of soul are harborless, the grains of flesh are homeless, neither the bridegrooms they are nor the husbands, neither the brides nor the wives, there in resonant grasses of a fragile morning the joy is sly, the marriage is fair, fussy, shamefully dark, the war is calm with its undercover battles there’s no winning over the pleasures and to forgive with the pleasures of the smart lonelinesses after the war to live and not to be, to procreate and multiply, to be afraid equally of the death and the Resurrection, the defeat and the victory, be ashamed of unlove and love, not to ask and to pray.

The third face of the soul, the body, the third face is the Resurrection, the body of hell is the Kingdom of heaven, the soul of hell is the earth, sly is the prayer for the abandoned flesh of the soul, the day stands in front of its light in the night, the night creates stars of the daylight, the sun opens to the stars, the moon to the sun, the war kills the dead as well as the living, the motherland’s not a mother to the dead, a strange land isn’t strange to the living, scatterings of motherlands, of strange lands gather in flocks of dreams about them at the sunset of fate to live the life without a lying, cowardly dream of the true death the fate of Resurrections, of the bitterest betrayals of the sweetest betrayals, the desperation soothes the menacing loneliness with the secluded happiness of home loves the calm, the thunder, the nakedness of rains in the leaves.

There was a war a long time ago, on the night mountain road there are droplets of sun dust in the raindrops, the beauty is unbearably beautiful, is empty, the night moon is full with the day moon, the winter’s the night, the spring’s the night, the night’s the fall, the fall summer, the summer is spring, the winter summer, August’s February, January’s July, December’s June, May’s November, April’s August, there’s December snow in April, in March there’s January dew, in May there’s February storm, tomorrow’s yesterday.

The dawn’s on the leaves, the sunset’s on the branches, the leaves are cold with the pre-dawn freshness, the woods of the branches are transparent in the pre-sunset utter leaves, there are no cenobites in the monastery but the humble demons, and beyond the monastery walls the gates are wide open to the Kingdom of heaven by the demons for the monks, today’s yesterday, the monks gather in a crowd by the yawning gates, the crowd of lonelinesses crumbles to dust the gates are opened slightly for a moment for the brethren by the quiver of the copulation of passion from the victory over the Resurrection with the wish in the war with the death from a demon, the wish for the consolation for self, the defeat, the desolation, the secluded loneliness a resonant call, a timid one, a watchful one.

The sun’s huge in a cloud of tiny stars, the passion for the Resurrection is more terrible than death, neither the dead nor the living, neither the vanquished nor the vanquishers, not one of them is coming home, a living soul has craved the Resurrection from a dead soul, from a flock of desperations the expectation of domesticated loneliness, the obsequiousness of the fate free of doom, of motherland’s rumblings in the flow of strange lands, from love’s arrogance for the dream of unlove.

One lair is the body, another lair is the soul, the third one for the defenseless Resurrection from the soul and the flesh builds the predatory Kingdom of heaven, the fourth one builds the Kingdom for itself, the fifth lair builds It for You, the sixth one builds It for the Virgin, the seventh one builds the Kingdom for the Father, the fall, the spring, the summer, the winter, ten, nine, ten, eleven dales and meadows from the lived by the fate into that not survived by the dream, and in the twelfth lair the circle of fate and dream gets tighter, the sphere expands, a living she-wolf gave birth to wolf-cubs from a dead he-wolf before the she-wolf’s life with the he-wolf, the winter litter’s in the spring, the summer litter’s in the fall, the heart’s stopped.

In a long spring a summer’s short, there’s a small bird’s long shadow along the ground, and in the very last sky the walls fall between the death and the Resurrection, a prayer’s not a warrior, it’s not a conqueror of the soul but the soul tortures, craves, captivates it, makes it suffer for it’s available, doesn’t kill it, doesn’t beat it to death, caresses and heals it, busy with self-pleasure, lets it go for some time, returns it not for keeps, fondles itself with intermittent prayers, the soul perishes.

The storm from the sun to the stars, the thunders are followed to the clouds by the fog, the top of the Kingdom of heaven gives birth to the Kingdom of heaven’s bottom, there’s neither motherland nor a strange land from top to bottom, there are rains and rains of boys, girls, women, men, of rain and rain the hearts swirl, red, black, yellow, white, the joy is sly, the trouble transparent, the victory of the Resurrection over death is colorless, the flesh’s childbearing, the soul’s childfree.

How many days are there in nights, how many lights are there in stars, the cardinal points the spring, the summer, the fall, the winter, the mountain night is light and deep, there are constellations of raindrops in the black branches on white trees, from mountain slopes there opens a view for the stars under earth from the earth, from summer under summer, from spring under spring, from under the fall to the fall, to winter from under winter, dreams and sleeps, the dream in sleep, in resonant little houses of dreams a cloud floats over a cloud, a storm crawls over thunders, a rainbow over the clouds, a hawk over an eagle, a swallow over a swift, a butterfly over a moth, meadows over the grass, a swift-eyed moon swims against ox-eyed stars with blue cornflowers, ox-eyed daisies, red poppies, bluebells, palm trees, cacti, swift-winged olives against floating cypresses.

The slaughter of a child against a child will cease, and there won’t be any hell at once, neither paradise nor Kingdom of heaven but any resonant joy will wish for itself, and thus it will wish a long booming grief, a momentary abandonment for itself of a loneliness newborn of a family of lonelinesses, a hopeless happiness to shut itself from the motherland in a strange land, to shut itself from a strange land in the motherland, a dispassionate passionate equilibrium of deaths, Resurrections, with tomorrow’s deaths of children one war lives to see another war living to see, to see the same children of yesterday’s Resurrection of murderers, from one war to another war, at a distance safe from wars, some dead ones killing other dead ones, some guiltless and alive murdering others alive and guiltless, tormenting and crying, recoiling and caressing.

The heavenly Kingdom turns beastly, beastly, beastly, there are three beasts, the Virgin, the Father, and You, tomorrow, today, yesterday, there are three springs that the war has, only the fall is only one, and again, and again, and again the spring comes, springs shed the leaves, it raises wind from branches of fall, an exquisite grief, a seeing skin of submission, a little shell of the absence of fear into desperation, into affection for death of the dead ones into the loneliness of its own death in a war, into affection for life of the living, three times surviving in their battles with the dead ones, a living soul’s drunk with the dead flesh dead on its feet, no one runs from the war, there are neither three dead ones in it nor one living, in the dead Lord the predatory Child, Father, and Maria are alive.

In the living ones the war dies, it Resurrects itself in dead ones, the heavenly Kingdom appears suddenly before the dead ones, and the troops of the dead have entered the Kingdom, stopped for a while, and remained forever there in the small last heaven, the dead ones procreated and multiplied, surrounding themselves with the living ones, and the living ones procreated, and they multiplied, and surrounded themselves with the dead ones, and a living wife took herself a dead one for a husband, and she span by her window.

The murderer of murderers is terrible to behold, beautiful he is, loved, defenseless, smooth in the face is the angel of war, crooked in the eyes, he’s domesticated by the war and homeless, winged he is and hirsute, covered with scales, he flies like a bird over his fish-self, the angel wings, one is a predatory lamb, another one is a wolf, the lamb’s prey.

One war is comfy and round, another one is fierce and square, the third war’s a sphere, the fourth one’s a cube, the fifth one’s an oval, the sixth war is a bark from the square to the cube, the bark from the oval to the sphere is the seventh war, the eighth war doesn’t bark at the seventh one, the ninth at the eighth, the tenth war doesn’t bark at the eleventh war, and the twelfth war is a hole it’s a winner, the killer soul.

The high sun hides in the deep sun, in the stars’ little entrenchments, in the moon’s dug-outs, into the exquisiteness of war, in the excessive nervousness, the war’s alive, alive, a specimen of sweet surrenders, it trains its keenness of observation of the death’s abductions from the death, it’s far away from deaths participating in it, and in the war a woman-death becomes related to a man-death, a concave loneliness expects a dead child from a convex offishness, so the dead child will be born any moment now, it’s happened, a living child born of the dead, he’s neither a girl nor a boy, neither a beast nor a birdy, neither a fish nor a snake, a branchy, unseen, experienced child, neither flesh nor soul but a dispassionate passion, a rainbow in a waterfall.

The last day of the war is lighter than body light, a hot, kind, homeless happiness saves itself from its loneliness with a love evil and cold, the viscid air bends under the weight of thick breathing, the resonant morning dances before the echo of the sunrise, at the bloodless sunset the soul is Resurrected bloody and hungry, from the floating embrace shining in the avaricious day it slips away into the scorching and generous snaking embrace of the Kingdom of heaven, and in the Kingdom the soul murders its body, caresses it, tortures, stings, pecks, and eats it.