The Wanderer - Anastasia Shevchenko

This man was not clear to me,

He sits in the toilet and smokes,

And then he'd come to me through the window.

Sometimes he was clumsy and untidy,

And sometimes he wasn't recognizable at all.

He would change every dream.

One day he'd be a wanderer singing,

Then he'd be a handsome lad from camp

Then he'd be a painter

Or an inexperienced gambler

Sometimes he might be a thief

And sometimes he'll be a talented sculptor.

I remember he was not a mature herbalist,

Always meeting his gaze, he would blush and walk away.

It was nice.

Whether he was a lion

Or a twin,

I don't remember.

He was only mature once,

I'll say he was an elf

He was a scoundrel.

A handsome brunette,

With beautiful eyes.

Only once was he close to me.

It was then,

When he climbed in my window.

The only time I could see clearly,

I could see his eyes.

They were like the same stone,

Called shungite.

Black as the coal that's recently been kindled.

Sometimes he was red-haired, too,

But seldom.

He was often all dark like that.

He dressed,

Formal, discreet, handsome.

He was afraid of noble ladies,

He never came to us in his dreams.

When alone,

He was always with me.

He could joke and he could talk seriously.

He wasn't much taller than me,

But he was much taller than me,

He was like a red diamond,

That's been rare for a long time.

I don't know where he is now,

I haven't seen him for a long time.

Sadly,

I've always loved,

To see him in my dreams.

I miss him,

I miss him so much,

The strange scenes and situations,

That were created beside him.

Unfortunately, those beautiful nights,

In those beautiful meadows,

No longer repeat themselves.

---

Anastasia Shevchenko (21st century) Ukraine

Source: Poetry.com