The death of my

< Inguri




My death is always with me,
under the right rib,
knitting lifeline
tricky knot squinting smile - oh, not good - but not with evil,
those who saw her angry.
my death, it is better to see,
where the fate of the last break,
and I was completely not worried

Immortals puzzled look upon us with death,
trying to find the meanings of the thread:
what is it you rastakaya?
and why is it live?
but you probably are not in the name of, but in spite of?
... Look in the mirror they used themselves,
and I did not consider myself someone else's eyes - but there it is, clumsy, hamming, beckoning,
the name of eternity shows delicate pink blew
their formidable fists of steel.
and absolutely nothing is dreaming

My death, my dear, I do
thoughtlessly impoverished:
a bullet in the heart
but in the pockets of leaky
one wind whistling
in such a climate does not remain
any dog ​​or cat, or even a mouse
I live in a one-story house
without basement and roof
and almost without walls
their children's hand painted on the asphalt chalk,
and inside me - notional figure,
consisting of change

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