I woke up from the cry of gulls in Dublin.
At dawn their voices sounded
how people, which are so ruined,
that don't feel sad.
Clouds went over the sea in four tiers,
like a theater to meet drama,
gaining a braille postscript of rage
and helplessness in a glazed frame.
In the dead park loomed statues.
And I flinched: i'm a thought, rather - near.
Three Quarter Life - Recognition
in an inarticulate howl
or - in complete fossil.
I was in the city, Where, failing to be born,
i could still, having the courage,
die, but don't get lost.
Screams of dublin gulls! end of grammar,
note of sound to attempt to cope
with air, mixed with the feelings of the foremother,
detecting treason forefather –
tore the ear with their beaks, the curtain,
demanding to omit long,
letters in general, and start your monologue again
with a clean inhuman note.