Well, time love songs, you again
heart leans to the ticking lyre,
and everything can be heard in raznogolosnom clergy
chirps syllabic blood.
Of all stihoslagateley, with me
you are so awesomely treat first
and beat their calendar on the nerves,
rinsing the lungs saliva.
Well, time love songs, start
rock venous trees
and sublime breathing of the pleura,
in the spine as a flame furnace.
And let the heart of the purple depths
to help inflamed intellect
- artery fire vraskrutku! –
sublimates his thick hemoglobin.
I'm lonely. I was very lonely.
As figs on the hills Genisareta.
The night does not decorate the stool
or skirt, nor garter, or stockings.
Looking for a simple effeminate Hill,
pupils in my sleepless anarchy
raging, as spotlights on the area,
Based on the masculine form.
Who? God of love? Ile Eternity? or Hell
you sent me, while these songs?
But still your calendar so cramped,
arrows that surpass dial,
bound up (begins! not in time!),
in distress, where the crumpled dress,
unthinkable in a close embrace,
whose elbows crawl over the threshold.
Blows over the winter dusk fields
fanfare in the south-west wind,
and snow at a distance of a kilometer
from exploding from the ground poplars
spinning in disbelief, like a swarm
all the angels, over, as a fail not sinless,
exploring the half-dozen skvoreshen
the trumpet, as the hero of Austerlitz.
Waste leaves the way of all the earth,
and branches triumph over space.
But courage, much akin to the stubbornness,
valor collapse. Skvorcinыe Kremlin,
you cast! and beaks tearing –
collapse prowess - without cores, unloaded
break away from the crow's bastion
the last defenders headlong.
It's time! And the hosts of snow - the land.
It's time! And the snow on roofs, of baggage.
It's time! And on the field, he, in the darkness
of pnyah, Napoleon on the shore.
1964 – 1965, Norenskaya