It is not the inspiration, and sadness
I incline to the description of the vase.
In the noise spreading elms.
But you can only increase the load
have ample, scratching
pen in blossom in front deck.
sing something, the creation of nature,
eventually, describe themselves.
But the proud world of animate bodies
rather a, than somewhere far away,
It has its natural limit,
that will not expand mirrors.
Another thing - a clay pot.
Let the, that he - the real estate, not exactly.
But movable here expressed in the, what
he makes the jump from nature
in callousness. He pleases our eyes
callousness, which at the same time
and it allows him to be the subject of,
I think, Unlike us.
And all these carts with horses,
even more so - painted faces
give, as everyone, that is created by people,
them of the ability to separate.
Antique Hall chews darkness.
In the sticking muscles Strobl.
And the arches, like a huge shaft,
I crawl on my neck.
All of these egg-shaped balls,
my alien, Sirius, Canopus,
eventually resemble the Globe
il more distant worlds.
And I I spin, like a fly at a temple,
over these empty craters,
pushing Russian hooks
metaphor, which is close.
But what I, however? This parallel
one will return to the deprived astronaut
more than all. Not prone to half-truths,
I can say: to distant lands
life buried in the mist,
I inanimate object already.
No mourning for lost ground,
there is no fear of death in the universe ...