These are ashes of treasures:
Of hurt and loss.
These are ashes in face of which
Granite is dross.
Much like me, you make your way forward,
Walking with downturned eyes.
Well, I too kept mine lowered.
Passer-by, stop here, please.
Children - are staring of eyes so frightful,
Mischievous legs on a wooden floor,
Children - is sun in the gloomy motives,
Hypotheses' of happy sciences world.
Like in a mirror, there's shade in the heart
I'm bored alone - and with men…
Slowly drags the light of the day
From four till seven!
Your whole way with shining evil's coal
Margaret, they all do bravely judge.
What's your fault? The body sinned as such,
Whence cometh such tender rapture?
Those curls--they are not the first ones
I've smoothened, and I've already
Known lips--that were darker than yours.
Like mountains - on this brow
Laurels of praise.
'I can't sing!'
The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
"I will not part! -- There is no end!" She clings and clings...
And in the breast -- the rise
Of threatening waters,
Of notes...Steadfast: like an immutable