My friends, Now the street and the door
in my red house, that's the rustling of leaves small
on the square, where the tree and the church
for those, who believe the Lord is now.
My friends, you know, affairs,
my friends, you put the glasses,
my friends, you know - it's time,
my friends from the short-lived poetry.
My friends, you know, how odd…
My friends, your way back is easy.
My friends, Here are extinguished advertising.
You know, guest comes to me.
On the street, on the street, whistling,
looking at the small windows,
and street pigeons fly
and beaks beating fast on the glass.
whisper, as the rustling of sins,
the curtain, as the curtain, the same,
as a whistle scissors, music moves,
and streets, as the white paper.
That Hamelin or re Petersburg,
to again address not to be mistaken
and around the corner to feel frightened,
but around the corner hangs a suicide.
Guest comes to me, guest comes to me.
stairs only guest in the world,
Guest committed Affairs and little Me,
Guest youth and evil immortality.
Guest white poverty and white cigarettes,
Guest humor and jokes nepomestnyh.
Guest urgent sad coaches,
evening and midnight arrests.
Guest offense lake - so small seas.
A single guest and the purpose and the Movement.
Guest memory of my, my poetry,
great away win and humiliation.
whether guests, the guest. I'll call friends
(let them rejoice too), –
cheerful triumphant guests
and you are terribly similar.
Here you buddy - Guest. Here you have a friend - a lie.
All the same pair of hands. The same pair of eyes.
Not a frequenter - Guest, but you look like,
and the only name he had - Disclaimer.
Look at it. the bridges,
missiles, filmstrip, fractures…
Love is his. He - at least, than verse,
but - more, than preaching hatred.
Love is his. What will people,
when his century exalt,
when will the twentieth century –
Century a small fire and scary thoughts?
Love is his. He Brain
and looks around the room a new look…
…goodbye, my guest. Guests come to you.
comes Guest. Guest time of arrival.
May 1961, Leningrad