ну вот и видео второй поэмы подоспело. какой у меня местами кошмарный акцент, а? :D





Your heart is a vault with a letter inside
kept safe under the lock and never read,
crisp paper untouched by wrinkles of folding lines,
unspoiled by inkblotches and fingerprint stains.
If you sometimes hear a faint rustling on a long winter night,
if you sometimes feel light trembling inside or a sudden
prick of pain as if from a papercut that’s your heart saying
Open up, open up, open up and read me.
So open up. Break the burglar alarm and break the lock or
give away the combination to it to a stranger if you’re afraid
to do it yourself. Burst the door open. Take the letter out.
It’s smooth and clean and unrippled and perfect and…
blank.
Blank.
So reach out to the world around you and turn it into crayons
and colored pencils, and write.
Don’t be afraid to re-invent yourself as a story.
Are there lines? Write crosswise.
Are there margins? Trespass them with lines and fill them with doodles.
Turn yourself inside out and spill words from your veins onto the paper.
Make it a manuscript will make Pulitzer prize
committee members’ hair stand on end.
And then fold it into a paper plane and let it go.
Watch it fly out of an open window, higher and higher,
until it pierces the sky and disappears into its velvet vastness.
Even if it burns in the high levels of atmosphere and returns in ashes
it’s still the only way to discover your wings
so write another one and let it go again
One day you will get a reply, dozens of replies carried to you with paper planes
just like the one you made, scarred with folds and filled with lines
that somebody else lived through. Take care of it and don’t forget to write back
till you fill the world with flying pages that together form one hell of a bestseller.