Egor
26.07.2004, 14:22
The future has died, not having had time to be born,
The future in my arms or hand - a mortinatus dark blue bird,
The future is buried in a communal grave
Together with hope, love and belief,
From above a cross, on itself raspjata a chimera.
And even those who has given birth to me, do not believe on Sunday
That once has died in day autumn.
Kind people treat with figs with butter or oil,
" About, as it izyskanno! ", I speak words of gratitude,
That were consoled, that bitterly did not cry,
That were not killed so on the dead man.
I shall leave, I shall become the hermit
In a circle where there is no past, the present and the future...
The future in my arms or hand - a mortinatus dark blue bird,
The future is buried in a communal grave
Together with hope, love and belief,
From above a cross, on itself raspjata a chimera.
And even those who has given birth to me, do not believe on Sunday
That once has died in day autumn.
Kind people treat with figs with butter or oil,
" About, as it izyskanno! ", I speak words of gratitude,
That were consoled, that bitterly did not cry,
That were not killed so on the dead man.
I shall leave, I shall become the hermit
In a circle where there is no past, the present and the future...