sand hills, piny.
It's wet in autumn and cloudy in spring.
Here the sea flutters ruffles in the wind
their colorless, yes from neighboring dachas
sometimes you hear a baby crying,
then Lemeshev will screech from under a bad needle.
Wormwood on the shallows and reed rot.
Take off your linen to the picket fence
single mother. The creak of oarlocks is heard:
then nature's stepson, gloomy finn,
swims to retrieve its seine from the depths,
but this net is empty and twisted.
Here the seagull will drop, a cormorant will flash there.
That aluminum airplane,
more appropriate among the clouds, than a bird,
tends to the north, where the Swede beats his thumbs,
like a sponge, absorbing gray,
and fresh air is not burdened.
Here the horizon is given features
Here is the faded sail of a lonely yacht,
drawing a transparent azure in the distance,
you will not seem like a pet of storms,
but - the swampy mouth of the Lakhta.
And the eye, accustomed to shrinking bodies
on distance, another limit
here it gets - where in general about the body
speech does not come, where loss is not a pity:
then what a great distance suggests
loss of sight, what kind of loss.
When I die, let me here
will postpone. I harm anyone
I will not cause, in the sand of the coastal lying.
Affectionate hugs, tight claws
equal to the one who fled cannot find more tender,
more obscure and sinless bed.