stars they are ... yeah ... their dear, kind God ignites
to some crazy old man , astrologer
looking at these tiny light bulbs watt edak thirty- forty
shaking white firebrand , and said - from the fate of some
in these two ... he - photojournalist - Dangle in hot spots
she - a dancer in the theater district town bumbarayska ...
and the stars next to them ... and see the time come to come across
two unlucky men zamorochki he flies - around the dark hill
chadit in the cab stinks rubber death ... what else ...
and the commander of him - do not stsy gentleman - friend , photographer
last out till the matter with you somehow to their hedge- ...
lied to all ... yes only she, too, was not hurt -
she podshofe behind the wheel ... he waited for her
Heavenly outskirts said quietly - hello -
a and imagined - a white snub-nosed risible
and she was on - I dreamed of this - the high forehead of a beautiful scar ...
walked and talked through the sky lit up by him
bulbs dull Tipo flashlights ...
and the old astrologer sitting on the balcony jogged ashes in a jar
coughing muttering - that zhezh unlucky there ...
ept ... went out ... so bright lights were ... ...
but thank God met yet met
Without Heroes
I'll drink to that , we do not grow together -
Life Wheel fatally mesh curb
[ in the sky for a couple of minutes, destroyed Troopers dragonflies
eagerly shouting Strizhin bombing ] He shakes his shaggy beard of clouds
beard reminiscent of the Wahhabis ]
You know , we in this war will remain forever - August without a fight lets September cities ]
And not a single hero
Kandahar legend
someday we in the mountains of semilunar
leave so that live forever
white on white trolling dunes
where the sun tickles the eyelashes
blushing pines
and bitter and thin
host to a blade of grass in the wind
and the wind will tell us the voice of Lorca
about death that has sunk into oblivion
in springs and the time clock on the river
we will have a golden
space under the roar of the crickets and sverchene
prilnuvshego dunes to the surf
you sculpt a daughter of the chirping of clay
her to fill in the cavity light
I've grown we ryzhekudrogo son
of the ovary of autumn to the summer
will not get past the terrible world
no rows in baked envelope
no pain no " black tulip " no smoke
or death
or death
or death