sung in bigly,
Space sees the height.
And Speed, arguing with the girl in flight,
Her up to blue height lifted,
She told me: – There is something in it,
She could fly, becoming a pilot.
But the voice of stupid speed, not hearing,
I am fascinated by the beauty of maiden,
What raised us higher and higher
Already soared with you, as extraterrestrial.
The space parted before us.
Imagination suffered ship.
And the stars, the myriad points, themselves,
Rush towards, like the Crab Nebula.
Suddenly the stars turned into a day.
The ship bus became usual.
Noisy behind the glass of trees canopy.
And I called the movement of the heart.
But all in vain. We sailed to the city,
Work waited for us and life.
And the whole day, I felt like hunger
In the space of the stellar movement of the stench.
Her, that gave me a smile.
Her in love with flying.
And figure her is like a flexible floret,
And the voice that sings in me.
A meeting
At the tram stop
I met with you.
In a new denim dress
In a mini-skirt blue.
You’re alone, and a number of people
You look into the rails of the canvas.
Here the tram, there further, goes,
Here in the crowd, you are not visible.
And fearing that I will lose
So, my favorite.
I run and glance,
And, having found, I sing in my heart.
– Is that you? Nadia, hello!
How are you? And how do you live?
– Not really, you know.
I knew you would find it me!
– Can together, are you far?
– Not! I’m married already…
It broke off, something bending,
The heart sank in the shower.
Loneliness
Like ringing funeral scary.
As the crypt cools the imagination.
And even say no sin
You’re lonely, no regrets.
I would run to the galleys in chains,
The whip of the slave driver,
I would love to take blows
For a friend, at the deserted coast.
But no, I’m alone without friends in this life.
Drag existence somehow.
Although I have, maybe something extra,
But all this is so outwardly.
In the soul of desolation and loss
Those days that went through together,
With you that was once,
Now in heart you live mine.
I wrote a portrait with Muses
I wrote a portrait with the Muses visible,
The lines went flat and the syllable.
As if I’d met my beloved,
With waterfall curls hair.
Trembled and smell like flowering,
As a motive lays down my syllable.
He is in your eyes. In the spring
Reflected in drops b could.
No, these poems are few, few.
Need to portrait thee write.
To make the lines more beautiful
Rainbow colors them to find…
A phrase out of place
Old Phrase meaning is simple,
Sometime, with someone very famous,
She fluttered a simple bird
From the cell of words, it is open.
Then in the space of phrases
She was relevant and needed.
And soon to the heights of dreams
From easy to famous ascended.
So became the phrase that winged.
But soon tired of everything.
And suddenly disappeared from the mouth somewhere.
Where? In a book at all?
But our Phrase wants to rotate
In the circle of modern winged phrases.
Out
