Okay, draw me – there are the paints!

There is the canvas – a quiet forest decor,
sun shadows, a few white birches,
a piece of sky – mushrooms below, space above.

Okay, I am back on the straight line –
you with a brush in my hand, me – 

stretched out in the morning,
and the canvas – a wing, between us bends
the silence of a night, stormy, sleepless!

I know that nothing will be forgotten!
Will not coded strokes sing?
They will breathe! Not in the canvas, but in memory –
wild, experienced passion will live!