Yevgeny Bazarov

Through the pen my soul pours,
an ink pleasure of infernal pain.
My companion's but a gentle sigh;
moulding shapes made of foam.
...

Disdained and long-forgotten,
left in the intellectual mud.
Remnants of sanity or a sudden breeze?
A rotten hollow filled with ice.
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A pink ribbon decorates her hair,
She teases and smiles my heart swears;
An ice cream on a sunny day,
With hand in hand we take a stroll.
...

Into the abyss I fall,
a dark mask covering my eyes.
Silence startles my troubled mind,
aghast soul succumbing to oblivion.
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