But rather a couple of modest lambs

had just in good time been set free.'

He's waiting, come along!

Your habitation forms out of your habits.

Now bring your folks with you, but take a nip

First, have a snack,

Begin a song,

before all that, it stands to reason, get some sleep:

Your spirit burdens of your body-wreck

like a fang-sharp dog's flesh suffers from the rabies.

So keep on mating with the expectation

Of beauty, call a halt just on and off

Till you be mentioned

As a protagonist of Love.

And what if God, indeed, was one of us -

how could you look at Him through the beer-glass?

Array a Christmas tree and fix

The top above.

Prepare a salad of the olives

Waiting not for the time cut lemons shrink -

you nip the boredom in the bud!

So, take with kid-gloves

and taste a sparkling man's old drink

Of sperm and blood.

No matter if she leaves,

If there is no spittle mix,

And passion is as innocent as a dove.

Despite I have been told, 'Go now and meet Him there,

look, He is born!

Just split that corn,

grow up your care...' -

One of my childish fears

Reveals that loss,

And I get on my knees...

But some do force to fix me on all fours.

And so you crawl

Knowing not of the way torn bodies fly

Just not to fall

But reach the death -

Between the barren earth

And barren sky.

Alone At Night

You have sunk in your memories.

Panes are all blackened, gently speared

with long brittle clutches of nodding trees:

They feel your furrows and throw their seed.

Lights are all smashing reaching your mind

(dark apples shrink dying on your table);

You sit close to yourself, a bit behind,

Playing with hushed wrinkled pain affable.

It snows. The snow falls down on your shoulders,

it marks you and reaches the sky's top back,

but here it looks no eye of the beholder

To sweep it and so save your hair black.

The furrows are smoothed out, the seed is growing,

You doubt less which makes your demons light.

For there must be one in the dark to keep sowing,

to lead one's hand blind being keen in sight.

The tree is your core and boughs are your wrinkles

while dead is your root and its smoke's too slow.

Gone is the call, with your silence it mingles

To let you get forward - beyond - and grow...

My Tenderness

My tenderness eludes your embrace

for there's more quiet and peaceful place

Which is much closer to spite and hate

With that half-closed (or half-opened) gate.

And while together are love and death,

there's love itself bids to care less

About you - as the death stands too close...

So I avoid those accepting both.

The Flow

Just like the tide which strikes and dreams of might,

your sense o'ertakes this pain and streams below,

Дата добавления: 2015-07-10