There is no time on the stone steps. It only subsides there. Do not wake him, footsteps! In a moment or two, watch him - a fool can carry in the straw the next moment! The paname hat rips summer. In my hand is warm - like overheated wheat. He runs a partridge, on her brown feather shining her parents. Smells of future bread, dry mud and sudden rain. Gypsies did not collect linden color this year. The rain rags it - a yellow carpet on my balcony. On the corners and the daffodils - yellow tears weeping. They remind us of the melancholy last night. The cinnamon sticks have fingerprints of a troubled woman. Polished by the touch, without the lines of her life. With this pencil I draw the curves of the desire for the other - despondent. Blessed silence. Peaceful inside tar, out - the fermented green fertility of the village. No inhabitants. Without life and animals. The white zebra the only flea goes and remains on the road like a stone. The foreign car brings me closer to my room through puddles. Deserted villages. City with Semaphores, astonished people with umbrellas. They are dying under the sunset at seven. And suppose that day was the longest. There was no miracle. It's gray. It climbs on the tops of the hours, arrogant. Pooh and silicone in both heads. Semi-finals, falsely colored indomitableness. True hypocrisy. The night is a mother swing. I turn to my mom's image.
