The morning set in. A big sad Bird with violet plumelets and empty blue eyes came down to my place. She landed just on my window-sill. The morning seemed blurred.
A bit later the window-sill became fraught with heavy blue tears, pouring from the sad empty eyes of the big and sad Bird. Finally, being fed up with all this stuff, he started heaving up and down with excitement, sighing menacingly.
Day dawns were not cooing, for some reason.
Having found neither understanding nor sympathy for her, the Bird hurt furiously the glass of my window with a beak and pulled down an angry Cloud from the Sky . Then she flew away , the Cloud in her beak. She kept flying low, very low, still carrying her Cloud, badly injured. And, finally, having grown too tired, she threw it away. The Cloud, good for nothing, fell down on the snow.
And Thaw began. Actually, it was the Cloud, all in shreds, crying bitterly.
"Hey, you!Be guiet here and don"t dare to moan, otherwise...", the Bird warned.
"You"d better not even try! You had better face up to the facts of life!And don"t let anybody know, that you were hanging in the Sky, always getting uptight about something or getting cross with somebody",- she seemed to be going on and on. But suddenly she changed her mind:
"It serves you right!"
It was the end of her accusatory speech, and she took off without a word.
Somehow or other, the Bird did come back to the windowsill, all the same.
But the windowsill hadn"t calmed down yet, he was still agitated with all these odds. Hardly had he realized whether he was waiting for the Bird or not, when she returned, all of a sudden. And it was too late for him to think it over. She immediately made herself comfortable right on his very Heart, on purpose, with her both feet on, pressing heavily.
I sat by the window, glaring at the Bird, and she was glaring back, both trying to stare each other down.
Time was also creeping on.
Suddenly there came a struck of a stark frost.
The door bell madly screamed.
I didn"t scurry for the door to open, because the door was fast asleep.
She wouldn"t open, anyway.
"The door won"t open. She is fast asleep",- I said.
"Take away the Bird from the windowsill, you bloody knackers!"
"OK. I"ll tell them.."
"Who are you going to tell?"
"The knackers."
This Something belted away. This very Something that had rung the door bell, muttering. It belted away.
Opus 3.Twice accented octave. A flat.
Translated from Russian into English by Helen Pyteva, the author.