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Tell me, my melancholy light that is the soul
Write your paint, write
I stand still in your arms without breathing
We are able, like no, you do not rush

We would hide in the attic of an abandoned
With a leaky roof from light stars
To read you, and not a word in mute
line To love you, this is not out of dreams

Write me as heaven smells like build peace,
The one where you're not going to wait for me
A world far removed from earthly flats cells,
Where so fond of Heaven condemn

I do not remember at what age, in which the edge
We lost our eternal and quiet house
Who does not know the truth - not in service
But we have something to be silent together

You write to me about their freestyle steppes,
About the decline of a rainbow over the bridge - about the fate of your clear clean copy,
Where I'm lying in a table scrap paper