Summer graveyards are so special.This smell - damp-warm earth, wilting roses and wreaths of blossoms
Summer graveyards are so special.This smell - damp-warm earth, wilting roses and wreaths of blossoms goutweed, infest track, fresh black paint, which is updated gate and fences, a little incense from the chapel on Sundays and, of course, cold, mossy stone. The whole essence of this unique in the twilight air merges into a single piece with the trills of nightingales ,especially gentle and sorrowly.Cemetery nettle, (namely the one from which you can weave shirts to turn swans back into princes!) - Tall, strong and a bit dull, despite the lush greens, like all other plants here ,that seem to live in this meditative state of perpetual extinction. Cemeteries come to me in dreams, non-existent, translucent, poisoning lovely inaccessibility rusty forged gates, elegant crypts thickets of ivy.. where I will nevere be..And they also come quite real, trodden from the beginning to the end, beckon familiar corners departed wonderful evenings haze of jasmine flowers, church candles and black cigaretes.They asked to return, and I’m coming back. When I was fourteen, - dressed and laced in black silk,together with girls,we visited the grave of an unknown “Innocently killed boy Dimitri eighteen years old … 1856.” Dimitri was our little secret from others, forgotten in the bush elder gravestone, which were barely distinguishable letters aroused in us compassion and romantic shiver.We invariably brought him a rose, and waited after midnight ,that he will come to us. I love to stare into the faces of the inhabitants and read illegible letters.In my childhood I begged the cemetery during the Easter holidays - from egg-orgy, vodka and plastic, trade fair - pink flowers ,with a silent eternity looked Agrippina and Panteleimon,blackened Jesus and gray chubby angels with empty eyes. I met people and fall in love at the cemetery, I skip class with a book on his rotten benches, I spent the nights there, and those nights with the sweetest bad wine in silence and uttered verses of yellow notebooks were unforgetable. I was searching in the old library books for each line that could lead me to the way of life of those, who rested there for more than a century. Yesterday I was here. -- source link
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