Unfinished

Friend, tending to the hidden form of flattery
God knows who - as a sober man
heavy arguments about death
He prefers to talk about the disease –
I, contaminating life as a draft
future dreams, your address on the envelope
its influenza dried steam,
to reach the infectious power
could my chemical letters
and that, prilʹnuvšij to pause and pores
damp sheets, I still OPRICH
Black Sea bay winter landscape,
described hereinafter, incarnated
in that instance the World Belov,
where are you, countering violence
chuhonskoy cold sprig Tirso,
If you experience pain in the throat
poloschesh mouth Attic salt.

Winter has passed through the mountains
as a climber with a heavy backpack,
and the snow lies on the stunted dodder,
in anticipation of Leander Gero,
Green Pont salty language
flooring him kiss melting tunics,
but the maiden waits and does not change the posture.
Aziysky wind, extinguished lighthouse
on the tower in Sesto, slams wicket
and at night looking Screwtape roses,
in the garden on a slope fallen into tetanus,
rumbles capsized watering
down the stairs, by cineraria,
exclamation mark in transforming
question, oppression of acacia; two cats,
amounting my whole bestiary,
dive into the cellar, terzaet and sound
in an empty glass rattling spoons.

Chechetka stavenь, vzvizgivane, chaos.
The impression, that swimmer
there is not docked and wanders bottoms
to sweetheart. Groaning and cursing,
next door general widower
It lets the dog. And in the next house
window sticks loaded shot
gun. And the sea far below
He breaks his ribs drawbar mall,
mane spilling over all the shafts.
& Garden hobbled fetters vines.
And feeling the absence of the verb
for the expression of thought impossible
about the reason, for which there is no
Leandra, Gero - or snow, which also,
slips in water, and you can see after
as the dawn illuminates slow
her steaming steam bed.

But it's windy night, a night
differ between themselves, how and days.
And sometimes it looks different.
Sometimes so quiet, in short,
you hear the sighs of flounder at the bottom,
that reaches the pioneering garden
Turkish overseas creaking mattress.
So quiet, that distant star,
shimmering in the form of a compromise
ink night vitriol,
able to hear the rustle of the blackbird
mane in a green cypress.
And I, who writes these lines,
to creak softly eternal pen,
crawling through the cells in the shadows,
recently metivshy prophets,
I hear the voice of his last,
and my hair fall into the hands of.

Friend, Honor your space! Time is not an obstacle
Invasion of cold and blizzards Gooden.
Once again I was convinced, that nature
true to herself and, Ninny from Hood,
I threw and ran north to south
in the green, a native of the year.

1970

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Joseph Brodsky
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