The house of the wandering pigeon. Winter

Crystal festive January!
As in the workshop of a glass blower,
worthy of the masterpieces of the Louvre,
how they knew how to tinker in old times,
when the Master ruled in art,
when the soul lived in things
and the world did not become impoverished in soul,
and happiness was not sought in things, -
there are trees at dawn -
large white corals,
and those corals - halls, halls ...
The house turns pink on the mountain.
The tide of dawn draws to that house.
I can only be at home there,
having rid the soul of Sodom,
You - yourself without changing

Oleg Mayorov