Born and live in Ryazan, Russia.)
The Hat
My grandad`s hat was old,
Moth-eaten, patched,
Salted with beads of sweat.
But when he put it on
Everything was going another way.
Wrinkled strong hands
Holding the sharp cold scythe
And stacks were risen
And fields were calm.
I keep it carefully now,
But I know, it dreams of
Fields and horses,
And salted winds,
And sun-sets purple
Like the blood of
Wise and wild maturity.