So I re-visited
love this place, peninsula plants,
Paradise shops and arcades factories,
Paradise river steamers,
I whispered again:
Here I am again in infant larah.
So I re-ran Malaya Okhta through a thousand arches.
Before me a river
crouched under the rock-coal smoke,
thundered on the bridge unscathed,
and brick fences
brightened suddenly gloom.
good day, Here we met, poor youth.
Jazz suburbs welcomes us,
hear pipe suburbs,
black hats beautiful, charming,
not the soul and not the flesh -
a shadow over the family gramophone,
if your dress suddenly planted up saxophone.
The bright red muffler
and cloaked in the doorways, in the state
you stand on the mind
on a bridge near the irretrievable years,
clutching to face half-finished glass of lemonade,
and roars behind expensive plant pipe.
good day. Well, we have a meeting.
Until then you disembodied!
Near the new sunset
driving distance firing webs.
Until then you are poor! so many years,
and raced in vain.
good day, my youth. Oh my God, to which you are beautiful!
The frozen hills
tacitly sweep Greyhounds,
among the red marshes
there are whistles trainsets,
on empty highway,
disappearing woodlands in smoke,
fly taxi, aspen and look to the heavens.
This is our winter.
Modern lantern looks deathly eye,
before me burn
dazzling thousand windows.
I raise up my cry,
to the houses he did not encounter:
This is our winter things can not return back.
To death there, not,
we did not find, not find.
From birth to light
every day somewhere to go,
like someone away
in new plays perfectly.
Receding all. Only the death of one of us gathers.
so, no separations.
There is a huge meeting.
so, someone we suddenly
in the darkness hugs shoulders,
and, full of darkness,
and total darkness and quiet,
we all stand on the cold shiny river.
How easily we breathe,
because that similar plants
in someone's life a stranger
we become light and shadow
or more than that -
that is why, we all lose,
running back ever, we are death and paradise.
Here I am again going through
in the same light paradise - with the left stop,
before me runs,
closing palms the new Eve,
bright red Adam
the distance appears in the arches,
Neva wind rings plaintive harps hung in.
How fast life
in black and white paradise buildings.
silent and heroic sky,
still shines at the fountain,
weaves morning snow, and machinery are flying constantly.
Did not I,
three lighted lanterns,
so many years in the dark
in fragments running wasteland,
and the radiance of heaven
have swirled crane?
Did not I? Something is forever changed.
Someone new reigns,
nameless, beautiful, omnipotent.
over the homeland burns,
light parted, dark blue,
and in front of greyhounds
rustle lights - for flowers,
someone ever goes near the new houses alone.
so, no separations.
so, We apologize for nothing
from the dead.
so, No one will return for the winter.
It remains one:
on the ground to pass untroubled.
Unable to keep up with. Overtaking - is only possible.
the, where we are in a hurry,
it's hell or paradise,
or simply darkness,
darkness, it's all unknown,
constant chanting of the subject,
if she does not love? No, It has no name.
It is - the eternal life:
striking bridge, incessant word,
The lively love, a slew of yore,
and radiance showcases, ringing of distant trams,
splash of cold water near your pants vechnoshirokih.
I congratulate myself
with this early discovery, with you,
I congratulate yourself
with a surprisingly bitter fate,
this eternal river,
with the sky in beautiful aspen,
a description of the losses for the silent crowd stores.
Not the tenant of these places,
not dead, and any mediator,
are you shouting about themselves last:
no one knew,
oboznalsya, I forgot, deceived,
thank God, winter. so, I will not come back.
Thank God, alien.
No one here I do not blame.
I'm going, hurry, getting ahead.
How easy to me now
that is why, that no one has left.
Thank God, I stayed on the ground without a homeland.
I congratulate myself!
How many years I live, I do not need anything.
How many years I live,
How to give a glass of lemonade.
How many times have I come back - if the house lock the,
how much I will give for the melancholy of the brick chimney and a dog's bark.