Soul, what happens?
He's coasting pier,
he blackened, ends
thicken, a Tsybikov
It was poured out of the caddy.
He was on the ledge of a narrow,
He agate machined,
He stupefying clot
Some passion tile.
clear, as the majolica,
Of the resins and lightning dialed,
He breathes a tremor table
And heat candelabra.
pretty. mist cry,
Glass Angles wept…
He was a dwarf, monkey
Меssieurs[17 – gentlemen (France.)], arrange chairs.
Home of more than anthracite tiles,
Gardens of more than copper mosaics,
The sky over Palen, than roll,
And the air is cracked, than the cry,
And in the heart, more discontinuous, than “hear”
Seas deaf ears mainland,
Caught off guard Bole, than suffocation,
Love and Bole, than Lovesickness!
I will blow on you, my idea,
And you will be, as leather Indian.
But what do you need, song, hope?
What happened to you, I shall never be parted?
I will create, as always, likeness
its you, slaves and rebels,
And after you sunsets pulled,
As a parting word to you and tombstones.
But nowhere I will not you celebrate
jubilee rays, and the world
You will not see the day, day meet you,
I'll leave the night in the heritage.
I love you black soot
hearth passages, in sols
Otpylavših Andante and adažij,
From ballads white ash on the forehead,
With calloused from cover music
On diem soul, in the distance
inept crowd, how shahterku,
Conducting day in mine.