Dance, Ballerina

Dance under the dome. Ballerina with a knife.
White ribbons fly like the last letters.
The hall freezes under the black cold rain,
And the conductor lowers his eyes too low.

Dusty chairs keep a cautious fear,
Other people's confessions darken in the velvet of the stage.
Every bow here is like a broken circle,
Every intermission is a delay of farewell.

Thin neck, cold porcelain on the face,
The step is weightless, but the floor underfoot is unsettling.
The spotlights tremble like a needle at the end,
And the applause sounds more and more rhythmic and stricter.

Someone laughs doesn’t mean that you are no longer sorry.
Someone is silent - it means they remembered something they had forgotten before.
Ice sadness creaks in white pointe shoes,
And behind the scenes there is a smell of oblivion and falsehood.

Dance, ballerina, until the glass breaks,
While this dome is still pretending to be the sky.
Dance, ballerina, beautiful, deadly, light,
It’s as if salvation is hidden in every movement.

Dance, ballerina,
over a city full of shadows...

Where music became an alarming confession.
And if love here only becomes more painful -
Don't drown it out with touch anymore.

Dance under the dome. Slow turn.
A white bird with punishment squeezed into a corset.
The stage sways as if there is thin ice underneath,
But the ballerina does not ask to be forgotten by confession.

Everyone in the hall has an invisible scar hidden,
Each was given a role and a ban on breathing.
Someone forgot the calendar of all premiere programs,
In the credits he called it a duty, a calling, a wedding.

Everything repeats: step, semicircle, darkness,
A light shadow runs across the white dress.
The knife is only the last form of the cross,
Where the screenwriter forgot how to write on the crucifix.

Don't look at her if you want to forget.
Don't look - beauty does not forgive suffering.
You can't beat anyone in this show,
You can only come out of the shadows a little late.

Dance, ballerina, until the glass breaks,
While this dome is still pretending to be the sky.
Dance, ballerina, beautiful, deadly, light,
It’s as if salvation is hidden in every movement.

Dance, ballerina, over the city full of shadows,
Where plastic has become an alarming law.
And if love here only becomes more painful -
Do not end this torment with a final bow.

Dance under the dome. The light is falling.
Someone was nearby - there will be no more forgiveness.
The white dress is a trampled trail,
As an excuse for terrible foreplay.

Dance under the dome. Still, a quiet bow.
The hall did not breathe and did not think about it.
White Bird enters final season
With a knife turned into a shard of dawn.