And years go as the iron troops,
And air with the iron balls is full.
It is without colour - in water ironing,
And dreamed on the pillow - as pink.
The iron truth - alive for someon e's envy,
Irony is an ovary, irony is a pistil.
And as a gland the poetry is in iron,
Running with tears in the section of outcoming.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem