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,
In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We had listened to your quiet call,
Since then all the living things are alien
And the knocking of the clock consoles.
Like mountains - on this brow
Laurels of praise.
'I can't sing!'
"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
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.
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.