satyr, leaving the bronze stream,
compresses chandelier at six candles,
as a thing, belonging to him.
But, how severely claims inventory,
it belongs to him alone. Alas,
possession of all kinds are.
Satyr - no exceptions. Wherefore
his scrotum oxide greens.

Fantasia underlines the reality.
And it was so: he moved to swim
through a stream, in whose mirror for a long time
six branches of the trees rustled.
He hugged the trunk. But the trunk belonged
land. And behind destroyed
next thread. rayed bottom.
And somewhere she chirped Philomela.

Another moment will last all,
satyr be grasped solitude,
streams their uselessness and earth;
but at the moment his thoughts subsided.
dark. But from every angle
"Not dead," repeated the mirror.
Candlestick reigned on the table,
captivating ensemble perfection.

We are not waiting for the death, a new environment.
From photos of bronze harm
satire net. Shagnuv for Rubicon,
He hardened by the pace to genitals.
Maybe, the art and takes,
only clarifies, and do not lie,
because its basic law,
indisputably, independent parts.

Let's light the candles. fully talk,
you need someone to light up the gloom.
None of us is not the master of others,
although ominous overtures.
Not me you, beauty, hug.
And do not you blame me in tears;
as floods stearin
not thinking about things, but the things themselves.


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Joseph Brodsky
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