I see my soul in the mirror,
my soul is unheard of,
no more paper sheet, –
my soul is unheard of,
my beautiful soul, The Lord,
lovely no less, than flesh,
the further, especially for dreams
to the girl you exalted the soul, –
beautiful, like a girl, soul,
you are so great, how good, –
as a girl inherent optimism,
my soul deaf infantilism
always with me in the midnight silence.
Outside the windows of no flesh, our souls.

Lanterns flicker outside the windows.
My soul is silent inside,
silent confusion in the minds,
my soul is silent in the dark,
silent behind the windows january,
silent on the wall calendar,
silent in the darkness snowfall,
unheard of silence decay,
his head is growing chime,
silent window and telephone,
my soul is silent, and mouth
unmothed, the people are silent,
winter is unbelievably silent,
from life and from death crazy.

In silence I hear voices.
Silent Holy Heaven,
dangling over the motherland.
A land without a tongue mumbles.
Only light from heaven thanks
my age from the birth of the lantern
apokalyptycheskyh to horses
one gesture of shadows,
whitish wrists and veins
lilac pattern, blessed
created this music without notes,
legless oracle dumb,
giving all one answer:
silence and continuous light.

In silence I hear voices.
Silent earth and heaven.
In silence I hear a slight buzz,
and the shadows of feelings run through the air.
Aspiring Issues, as a forest,
into the beautiful silence of heaven,
like a dream of stabbed bodies,
crowded in restless hearts.
You can hardly excite emptiness
a prayer, dedicated to the post,
a wonderful return to my father’s house
and stamped on a blank envelope,
so that feelings, flashed through the night,
dressed in silver airmail.

Like it's a lie, and this is work,
as if this is life, and this is fornication,
as if it's dirt, and this is blood,
not a sin - but it's a strange love.
Not a miracle, but a dream of miracles,
not a righteous man, and hurry up
flicker and get lost in heaven
a postcard to the Commonwealth Paradise,
as if it were a thread and a connection,
as if, not laughing at himself,
you assert yourself: here is god, and here is the threshold,
as if it were you, and this is God,
as if a century buzzing in his hand,
and your life, kak Io, in the distance.

So that feelings, flashed through the night,
harboring the prodigal sons and daughter
beautiful and, changing the address,
so that feelings do not reinforce the myth,
should not have been the night before Christmas
pop out of his house,
afraid of stabbing and fighting,
jump out of terror into darkness,
should not be in a big panic
escape from the pursuit of the soul,
should not have believed in miracles,
matters rush to heaven,
should not write you a letter,
should not save his flesh.

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Joseph Brodsky
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