In the rivers where there are many fish,
the paths are winding.
The fisherman longs to get there.
Fast rivers are more dangerous
like unfulfilled dreams that we have forgotten.
Every morning, the fisherman goes out to fish,
dreaming of reaching those depths.

the dreams that leave me behind your back,
love in autumn,
and lying on brittle leaves.
There’s a long road to reach you,
and with every dawn,
I wither away, thinking of you.

A top circle  and altogether a different dimension,
high heels and not quite obscene...
You are the misalignment of status,
worthy of the path of light,
yet the bearer of a hopeless platform
a train discarded into a dark world,
with a faint desire for love.
Hell is on Earth.

Boiled plum jam,
and the wind took away my hat.
In the morning,
when I spread black plum jam on toast,
I remember the taste
of the sweetest love.
Just boil the plum
and sweeten it...

the color of cinnabar
bluish-red fluid spills,
reminding me of a pearl.
I loathe that one day,
somewhere on Perovskaya,
in some bar.
I hate every foul memory
that tastes like blood,
like rust.
A city
where hot wind blows,
dust clings to sweaty skin.
You sit on the stairwell, endlessly tired,
and tears won’t fall
the antidepressants have made you
forget how to cry.
You haven’t wept in so long
not even for the things
most worth crying for,
when once
you could cry for an hour.
Vile summer!

It rains, and children, in rubber boots,
walk into the deepest puddles.
It rains the grass grows wet,
and my feet burn, for they are bare.
Rain is most beautiful in the mist,
and the pains our bodies feel
as the rain approaches
vanish with the rain.

The car windows lie back into the rain,
yet the rain keeps soaking them again.
This process
and the squeaking of the windshield wipers
is my favorite.
In these moments,
I dream of heavier rain,
of a longer traffic jam
so I wouldn’t be able to go back home.