The second Christmas on the shore
Kings Star over the fence port.
And I can not say, I can not
live without you - because I live.
As can be seen from the papers. exist;
hlotayu beer, get dirty and foliage
That bit of trauma.
Now, in a coffee shop, from which we,
as it befits temporarily happy,
soundless explosion were thrown
in the future, under the onslaught of winter
beige south, I have fingers to Church
your face on the marble for the poor;
distance nymphs jump, on hips
what, gods, - if the brown stain
in the window represents you, gods, –
you wanted to make us finally?
it's coming, and what
portable; falling objects,
violinist leaves, music does not last,
and the sea all wrinkly, and persons.
And there is no wind.
Someday it, and not - alas –
we, will overflow grate prom
and move under the cries of "do not need",
throwing up ridges above his head,
there, where you drink your wine,
I slept in the garden, dried blouse,
- smashing tables, coming mollusk
preparing a bottom.
January 1971, Yalta