the guest

Chapter 1

My friends, to me this time.
Here are the street with autumn palaces,
but not asphalt, plated ends,
my friends, Now the street for you.

Here, the poor lovers, easy,
in the evening in the hairdressing crowd,
and cigarettes they smoke white,
white collars and tremble.

Here bookstore, but is not rich
love, tour, poems,
and on the balconies of the glasses tinkle,
and the curtains rustle softly.

I appeal to the ear, I appeal to the ear,
here's cheers and noise elegant dresses,
these sounds are pleasing to the homeland
and briefly desire services.

All life is not the same, all, it seems, on the heart
is a, out-of-date load,
and all concerned small breasts
in a crimson shirt hypocrisy.

Why so. my poems - Welcome.
Most of this abuse subscript.
Here's lights, under the guise of lactic
brown wings doors.

Here is the street, street's, Not unusual –
one end of a brown haze,
and a number of childhood crying on the corner,
and by all sweeps trolley.

Someday, with time, I understand,
that is thinner, even more instructive,
it is easier and significantly landscape
does not tell the time in my heart.

But until now, a profusion of enemies
I picture all the more care.
And now on the street is
moves fast love.

Do not rush me, I do not run vosled
and on the road colliding,
live and not. But the cry of the early years
Sorry again letit.-, love of God.

Hold the. Away Foundry Bridge.
You can see for yourself - it spreads its wings.
Hold the. Guest comes to me,
from the future time comes.

Chapter 2

Now white smoke cigarettes,
my friends, and put on jackets,
room and divide into seven parts,
and each will get a portrait.

Yes, each portrait. Friends, fitting l
notice you, you know, friends,
I now have a boyfriend…
That's my room. of crossings

always here. Parents, family,
and domestic smoke smell does not change.
…Dude something reminds you…
My friends, that's my room.

here birthplace. Here - if unvarnished,
here - the previous day and the current theater,
but tomorrow's my day is not here. ABOUT, tomorrow,
my friends, Now room for you.

That's room love, sofa, balcony,
and here is my desk - that's art room.
And at the ends of truck trembling
along signage and pink shoulder straps

pehotnogo schools. Friend
It comes to me on my street.
Here is the room, not knowing children,
room parent's bed.

And what to say about it? I do not feel it,
Do not feel, I can only enumerate.
You know… Oh no… It is very clean,
all this mother, its efforts.

You know, to me… Brother, not on the,
a room with a friend, which…
But the father, when he was a major,
then he became a photographer.

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Joseph Brodsky
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