In memory of Gianni Buttafavy

I met you for the first time in the wrong latitude for you.
Your foot where no one had gone; but your fame reached
places, wherein the fruits are usually made of clay.
Knee-deep in snow, you stood, white,
more than that - naked, in the company of one-legged,
also bare trees, as a specialist
at low temperatures. "Roman deity" –
I read a faded plaque,
and for me, you were a god, as you know about the past
more, than I (future me
in those years of little interest).
On the other hand, curly-haired and chubby,
you seemed coeval. And although you do not understand
a word in the local dialect, we somehow got to talking.
I chatted first; something about Pomona,
winding our rivers, capricious weather, of money,
lack of vegetables, leapfrog with the times
year - about things, I thought, available to you
if not on the merits, then the overall tone
complaints. Little pomalu (complaint - Universal
prayazık; initially, probably, It was
"Oh" and "ah") you began to speak:
squint, contract the brow; the lower part of the face
as if thawed, and lips moved.
Vertumn, - Finally you are forced. "My name is Vertumn".


It was winter, Gray, - or rather colorless day.
extremity, shoulders, torso, as we
moved from topic to topic,
pinker slowly and covered with cloth:
hat, shirt, trousers, Blazer, coat
dark green, shoes from Balansiagi.
Outside too teplelo, and sometimes you, zamerev,
I am listening to the rustle of the voltage in the park,
inverting occasionally adhesive sheet
in search of the exact words, The exact expression.
Anyway, if I'm not mistaken,
to the moment, when I, Inspired pretty,
He declaims about the history, wars, crop failures,
a bad government, already bloomed lilac,
and you're sitting on the bench, Recalling distance
ordinary citizen, exhausted state;
Your temperature is thirty-six and six.
"Let's go to", - you said, touching my elbow.
"Let's go to; I will show you the area, where I was born and grew up ".


The road there, naturally, He is lying through clouds,
reminiscent of the color of the plaster, this marble
so, it seemed to me, what did you mean
exactly this: blurred outlines,
chaos, the ruins of the world. But this would mean
the future - while, you already
there. A little bit later, in an empty coffee house
in the incandescent sun dormant town,
where someone, inventing the arch, He was unable to stop,
I realized, that err, hearing your conversation
the local old woman. Language proved to be a mixture of
evergreen to rustle babble vechnosinih
waves - and so fast, that during the conversation
you several times turned in front of me in it.
"Who is she?"- I asked after, when we came.
"She is?"- you shrug. "No one. For you - the goddess ".


It does a little cooler. Meet us often become
fall passersby. some nod,
others looked toward, and it was visible only profile.
They were all, but, dark-haired.
Each of the back - perfect prospect,
not excluding children. As for the old,
they have it as it curled - like a snail shell.
Really, throughout the past was much more,
than this. More millennia,
than smooth car. People and sculptures,
as they zoom in and out,
does not increase or decrease,
implying, that they - constants.
Strange you have seen in a natural setting.
But there was less strange fact, that I almost
everybody understood. Business, probably, It was
in the perfect acoustics, related to architecture,
or - in your intervention; in general addiction
perfect pitch to the inarticulate sounds.


“Do not be surprised: my specialty - the metamorphosis.
On whom I look - I become immediately.
You is at hand. Still abroad”.


A quarter-century later,, I hear, Vertumn, your voice,
uttering these words, and I feel for yourself
your gaze gray, strange
for eye southerner. In the background - palm trees,
precisely tousled tramontanoy
Chinese characters, and cypresses,
like Egyptian obelisks.
Noon; dryahlaya balustrade;
and a spattered sunshine Lombardy mortal appearance
divinity! time to deity,
but for me - the only. With bald, with a mustache
rather a la Maupassant, what Nietzsche,
Uploaded with strongly - for greater camouflage –
torso. On the other hand, not for me
brag diameter, pretend to Saturn,
flirt with a telescope. Nothing goes for nothing,
time - especially. Our rings –
more rings of trees with their stump prospect,
than rural roundelay
or arms. Touch you - touch
astronomical sum cells,
Price is always - fate,
but which only tenderness - proportional.


I dwell in the world, in which your gesture and the word
were indisputable. Mimicry, imitation
regarded as loyalty. I mastered the art
blend in with the landscape, both with furniture or curtains
(which affected over the years, the quality of clothes).
With my mouth in conversation it was sometimes stall
personal pronoun plural,
and fingers woke liveliness of hawthorn in the churchyard.
I also threw a look back. Zaslыshav szadi cannon,
now I do not flinch. paddle, as the draft,
I feel, that behind me
now also runs street, colonnade overgrown,
that at the far end, too many blue wave
Adriatica. The sum of their, certainly,
your gift, Vertumn. If you want - Deposit,
trifle, a generous infinity
sometimes temporary showers. In part - out of superstition,
partly, probably, because it is one –
temporary - and capable of happiness.


“In this sense, this, like me, –
you grinning, - from your brother's benefits”.


Over the years, I began to feel, that the joy of life
It became like second nature to you.
I even began to figure, is it really safe
joy to the deity? Do not deity eternity
eventually paying for joy
life? You just waved. but no one,
no one, my Vertumn, so glad transparent
PROFESSIONAL, brick basilica, needles of pines,
tenacity handwriting. More, than we! Much
more. I even thought, if you are infected
our omnivorous. Really: view from the balcony
a spacious area, ringing bells,
streamlined fish, tattered coloratura
visible only in the profile of the bird,
grow into applause and cheers laurel,
the rustle of banknotes - can evaluate only those,
who remembers, what tomorrow, in the best case - the day after tomorrow
it's all over. maybe, just have
immortal joy learn, the ability to smile.
(After immortal alien to such concerns.)
In this sense, you benefit from our brother.


Nobody ever knew, how do you spend the night.
It's not so strange, considering your
origin. Once at midnight, in the center of the world,
I met you in the company of faint stars,
and you gave me a wink. secrecy? But space does
not secretive. conversely: in space can be seen all
with the naked eye, and sleep there without blankets.
The intensity of a normal star such,
what, cooled, is ready to generate alphabet,
vegetation, time format; simple - we,
with our past, the future, real
etc. We - just
thermometers, brothers and sisters of ice,
instead of Betelgeuse. You made was from Heat
and because - ubiquitous. It is hard to imagine
you in any particular, even brilliant, point.
Hence - your invisibility. The gods do not leave
stains on the sheets, not to mention - offspring,
content similarity of man-made
in a stone niche, or at the end of alley,
I am happy in the minority.


Iceberg swam in the tropics. exhaling smoke, camel
advertise somewhere in the north of the concrete pyramid.
You too, Alas, sharpened neglect
its direct responsibilities. Four Seasons
increasingly resemble each other,
mixing, just in vыtsvetshem wallets
inveterate traveler Franks, lira,
stamps, crown, pounds, rubles.
Newspapers mutter "greenhouse effect" and "common market",
but the bones ache that house, in bunk abroad.
You look, destroyed even fled minefield
years predecessor shalopaya Cristo.
As a result - the birds do not fly
time in Africa, types like me
fewer and fewer are returning back home,
rents sharply jumps. Little of, what do you need
live, monthly one also has to pay for it.
“The banal climate, - How have you noticed, –
the future is quickly becoming a real”.


Hot July morning body temperature
falls, In order to achieve zero.
Horizontal mass in the morgue
It looks like raw garden
sculpture. Starting with a broken heart
and ending fossil. This time
words will not work: my language
no longer foreign to you,
to listen. And you can not
start at the same cloud twice. Even
if you're a god. Especially, if not.


Winter Globe mentally flattened. latitudes
creeps, especially at dusk, another other.
Alps they do not interfere. smells glaciation.
smells, I would add, Neolithic and Palaeolithic.
In common parlance - the future. for glaciation
there is a category of the future, which is the time to,
when no longer love anyone,
even themselves. When you put on things
itself without calculating all this suddenly throw
in someone's room, and when you can not
leave the house in a blue shirt,
not to mention - naked. I learned a lot
by you, but not this. In a sense,,
in the future no one; in a sense,
in the future we no roads.
Of course, there are looming everywhere moraines and stalactites,
potekshim exactly with the contour of the Louvre and skyscrapers.
Of course, there someone moves: mammoths or
Beetles mutants of aluminum, some - skiing.
But you were a god of the subtropics to the right of supervision over
mixed forest zone and chernozem –
above this last the birthplace. In the future, it is not,
and there is nothing for you to do. That's the way it creeps
winter on the foothills of the Alps, on cute Apennines,
othvatyvaya the lawn with her flower, easy
something evergreen: mahnolyyu, laurel branch;
and not only in winter. The future is always
comes, when someone dies.
especially people. Especially - if God.


Painted in the colors of dawn dog
barking in the back passer night color.


In the past, those, someone you love, do not die!
In the past, they alter or hide in perspective.
In the past, the lapels already; only shoes
they smoke near the battery, as the ruins of the boogie-woogie.
Last stynuschaya bench
It recalls the abundance of bars
distraught equal sign. In the past, wind
still stirs the mixture
Latin with a Glagolitic naked park:
Jae, that, of the, schA plus X, igrek, Z,
and you laugh loudly: “In the words of your leader,
I know nothing better abracadabra”.


A quarter-century later,, similar to the spine
tram strike sparks in the night sky,
as a civic salute extinguished forever
window. One equals two Caravaggio Bernini,
turning woolen scarf
or aria in the Opera. these metamorphoses,
It now remains unattended,
continues by inertia. Other items, however,
harden in as, where you left them,
why they no longer can afford
anyone. demonstration of loyalty? Just tendency
for monumentality? Or is it in the door
arrogantly breaking the future, and unsold soul
in front of us gets the status
classics, mahogany, Faberge eggs from?
probably the last. What - too metamorphosis
and also your credit. I have not anything else to weave
wreath, to somehow decorate your forehead on the wane
this extremely dry year.
In badly furnished, but a large apartment,
like a dog, remaining without a shepherd,
I go down on all fours
and claws scraped flooring, just below them buried –
because there is warmth –
your present existence.
At the far end of the corridor rattling crockery;
the door rustle hems and pulls chill.
“Vertumn, - I whisper, clinging to the brown floorboard
wet cheek, - Vertumn, vernis”.

December 1990, Milan

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