Like the voice of a hat.
Verneuil, like a headdress my voice.
Verneuil, seem to be, throat pressure
bristle fur hat on my hair.
Superstructure speech on my mind
exalted laces on me the,
lofty soft animal,
tied bow lace.
Around snow, and it has its own
regularity, as in any whim.
Around snow. And only my speech
It recalls the life size.
And repeat it once or twice
"Circle of snow" and do not get a hand
to these words, uttered muffled –
Now my humiliation Treukhov.
come spring, become green eyes.
And with a cry of birds in the clouds rise again.
And greedy beaks at the end of sentences
they sank her in the heavens will disappear.
What is it: greed birds or frost?
Or similar to the cap of the words? or seriously
"Circle of snow," said I again,
and birds snatched word,
although it is turned green, my eyes.
Forest road plucked hook.
Snowstorm sweeps all day recklessly.
Touched my lips beak holes,
and sweeter than a kiss, I do not know.
I look into the distance oboznalsya,
kidnap my sadness mouth
instead of love, and, squaring his shoulders,
I wave my hat winged speech.