This collection of poems about a man named Alexey encompasses a variety of moods, from quiet sadness to bright irony. Each poem is dedicated to a moment in Alexey's life or a character trait, offering a brief emotional portrait. The short, eight-line poems are suitable for reading aloud or for memorizing.
Alexey
He walks down the slope with a quiet firmness in his feet, His steps measure the days, unhurriedly. In his pocket is a photograph, dust and fear, On his lips is a smile, like rice. He remembers the light that spilled in the windows, And the sound of the rain that dances on the roofs. He has enough truth in small gestures to hear the world, even when it is silent.
Alexey's morning
The kettle whistles—the beginning of simple tasks, Coffee leaves stains on the table. A reflection on the window—an old portrait of deeds, And the world seems to fall back into place. It glances at the horizon's edge, Seeking the point between thought and deed. So each new day, like the first step of a secret, Carries a little light in its hand and laughter in its body.
Letter
Alexei writes lines without a signature, Paper knows everything—both joy and sadness. He puts a dot where the bird began, And folds the sky in the fold of his hands. The letter wanders along a narrow path, Where leaves whisper their old scores. He believes the whisper will reach the line, Where the rain stops the clock on the bridge.
On the shore
Alexey watches the wave recede, leaving traces like old poems. The music of years is preserved between the stones, and the wind brings foreign dreams. He gathers tiny stars in his palms, tossing them at night into the streets of sleeping houses. Where the water warms for a moment, he hears an answer—a distant and stern call.
Carpenter
He knows the name of every board and nail, Counts the years by the rings on his palm. Tools speak to him of labor, The past in the jagged steps of the house. Alexey measures words in centimeters, Builds bridges across cracks and mountains. Old objects creak in his hands, Later becoming the silent memory of courtyards.
Memory
His memory holds faith and cigarette smoke, And songs that cried under the lamp at night. He doesn't hide his tears, but he doesn't take an answer either, Let the eyes remain in his soul. Every image is a window with a fogged frame, Every step is the ticking of a clock in the hallway. He wanders along the narrow strip of his sleep, Where light is a reason to begin again.
Road
The road calls, and he walks without luggage, Underfoot—the rhythm of old iron and silence. Each transition is a small truth past fear, Each station is like a nameless portrait. Alexey counts the stations by the wind's stern, Trying to map the sky in the palm of his hand. He doesn't ask where the blizzard leads, The path, the shadow, and the line are enough for him.
A song for a friend
He sings of a house where the windows glow with candles, and of how easily sadness fades. The notes fall on the shoulders of the trees and the moon, and the sky responds with a quiet sadness. The song moves through the streets like a boat, gathering voices and words in its palm. Alexey sings, and it comes to the city, like an old friend who remembers our home to the end.
Night phone
The phone rings, and he picks it up, His voice trembling like a lamp in an old window. Conversation is a bridge thrown into silence, Where time measures sighs and moments. Alexey listens to the drops on the glass, Collecting the rhythms of his long nights. He knows that a word can save spring's dress, And to let go is to let it breathe again.
The Last Light
Outside, the city sets, the lights go out, and only the lamp remains like a beacon. Alexey stands by the window, counting the stars at the edge, and polishing his thoughts like a glass flag. He holds in his palm all that was simple, and remembers faces that seem real. In this silence, the last light has not faded, it remains to sing for the next day.