In empty the eyes of not udivlenie,
Not cowardice, not vice,
Not to new feats aspiration
And not humility vow.
In the empty eyes of the living plasma,
That state of matter,
Where there is no irony, sarcasm,
But the words are jumbled.
In a separate heap the days of the week
Vibrate one tourniquet.
Behind them are book sections
And rhymes rolled into a coma.
Familiar street names,
Smacking names,
Go policy, slouch.
Behind them is a gray wall.
Of course, there are memories,
Such bright lights,
Where pleasures and sufferings
Go to the station these days.
