Bridges. |
How long can you run on them without looking back?
|
Extinguish. |
Pretending that everything is absolutely fine.
|
Skeletons bite on the heels, blots climb on the cells of the notebook.
|
Like "Horse" Borzov to me, or soon. |
Only guesses.
|
The eyelids are raised only under the amen.
|
Now guess who's behind the burnt palms.
|
A stone around the neck of life vaudeville.
|
Towards the curtain, the flame is crucified with bows.
|
Gifts of life - two pounds of salt and dust.
|
How many bridges had to burn? |
Only one.
|
What has accumulated - waved and scrapped.
|
Attention! |
We are glad to introduce ourselves - a spark and kerosene.
|
Chatter will not give fire.
|
I drink bad manners with rain
|
On the bridge, which is set on fire from two edges.
|
The lighter went out, but not my Rubicon.
|
The new dawn itself goes on the rampage.
|
Little growth but the stars beckon
|
To grab hold of the nails on the muddy limestone
|
Head held high
|
Little growth but the stars beckon
|
Grabbing nails on dirty lime
|
It's not the first time for me to search
|
***
|
Strength is in truth, but in whose strength is it?
|
In an old lamp or church chandeliers
|
In the smell of kerosene, in burnt railings
|
Without fire, there is no smoke, like ink without a measure.
|
One step further, one step closer
|
From what skis do not go enough books are written
|
Playfully to the left and right shakes the red mane
|
I hear in a whisper: “Why did you murmur for so long?”
|
The eyelids are raised only under the amen.
|
Now guess who's behind the burnt palms.
|
A stone around the neck of life vaudeville.
|
Towards the curtain, the flame is crucified with bows.
|
Gifts of life - two pounds of salt and dust.
|
How many bridges had to burn? |
Only one.
|
What has accumulated - waved and scrapped.
|
Attention! |
We are glad to introduce ourselves - a spark and kerosene.
|
Chatter will not give fire!
|
I drink bad manners with rain
|
On the bridge, which is set on fire from two edges.
|
The lighter went out, but not my Rubicon.
|
The new dawn itself goes on the rampage.
|
Little growth but the stars beckon
|
To grab hold of the nails on the muddy limestone
|
It's not the first time for me to search
|
Little growth but the stars beckon
|
Grabbing nails on dirty lime
|
With your head held high. |