Ode to Emptiness
There are documentary series about the area, where people are rare to meet and human is not always welcome.
I'd like to welcome the void as a feast of distance and absence
To welcome the world of desert, lands opened to the horizon, coated by a web of dried grasses.
I’d like to talk with the wind, to feel its movement and changes. To run and become the run, dusty and endless.
To mark my path as a treasure: the path on which my home is but a short pause, a dream in the circle of a golden light.
Give me a space to run through, like a loose thread, through the wild steppe, to the unknown.
Give me the freedom not to see what will happen next, the depth that I cannot measure.
I’ll pitch a tent, and the rustle of steppe grasses, and the lisp of tulips and irises, and distant voices will be close by.
Where is the place to touch the sky? Asking vaguely and then listening to the story of the wind, the noise, and the wail.
The history is being torn apart under a burden of centuries, showing its mute bones.
Will anyone complain about horrible mores or narrate about kindness and then fall silent, remembering suddenly?
It can be true — ‘cause true isn’t clear either. We poured in the steppe as one pours milk into a cup of tea.