Читать книгу Tales Written by the Dying in Awe - Vysheslav Filevsky - Страница 20

Say only nice things to me. I want to know that there is a harmony in your soul. If this is truth, then let your lips be full of sonorities, and may a contradicting note never besmirch them. Act so when my consciousness stays on the sky. How easily will it be for me to pray then!

The honey of your speeches forces my psalms to shine especially bright yet invisible light. When love is the cause of your words, there is no need to speak about love. No, do not speak to me about it, because a word cannot express love.

It is enough that you love, and this is why I ask you to say only nice things to me. Those trifles that I hear from you resemble plants, fed with the underground moisture of your love. On earth, a drought is possible. But those plants fed by love are always juicy. They bloom and spread unearthly fragrance. I soak it up. Meanwhile, my body grows thinner. My soul is becoming free, and, having once been free already, it does not need words for communication at all. It hears only pleasant things. It penetrates and is penetrable. It is an expression of sonority itself. And this is what it is happy with. Its spiritual ringing arises everywhere across the universe. Meanwhile on earth, only you hear its sweet singing. And I do not need more than that, because I radiate my psalms for heaven, for its angels, and for you.

But if in an unkind minute my consciousness finds itself on earth, say nothing to me. Be silent; go away; be patient, because earth is not the place where I will stay for a long time.