The images darken behind the glass
On Friday, that is called the Great.
Pain sends a bow
In the lower back. Miraculous faces
Closely in the bookcase behind the glass -
I'll press one icon to my heart,
Where lay a frightening fracture
With a frequency of four vicious hertz.
I myself, like the faces behind the glass -
Dym, quiet and look tired.
I know and triumph I, and bummer,
And I will complain that everything is boring.
But the smile behind the glass will sparkle -
My terrible Savior will smile,
Turning into gold a rusty scrap,
And a ray will penetrate into my abode -
Will play a clean glass
And the remnants of darkness and decay will be torn:
"Do not grumble in your heart: Love was.
There is She. And he expects you from captivity ... "
