I do not write long with one hand,
I write with both - it drives me.
And from time to time I put a little soul,
not to let the stubble remain on me.
I sometimes overslept this land,
to look for a forgotten, old stone in the ashes,
to extract from him a little "wonderful water"
drop, two, and pour the end story.
I do not write, long-written poems,
because those smart moments passed,
in my youth, when I loved loudly and passionately,
and I hated insanely, though stupid, somewhat dangerous.
I do not write, but somehow, they spring out of me,
all strange words and rhymes turn.
Sometimes others in me feel,
sometimes in others, I welcome myself.
I do not write, but I love it,
through my eyes on the rows to run,
in a frenzied frenzy to feel the leaves woody,
and distant songs are known,
the countless voices, the endless verses,
of the foreigners that are spoken,
from rhymes awake in noisy words of flesh.
Goodbye and Kisses ...
