< Misha Campfires
The finish of the night,
Conversations about the sorrows and senses - Cold, snow, thoughts,
That does not crumple, do not quit.
Absurd somehow, in two, empty,
It does not say, -. Mumbled drunkenly
Gaps in the sweaty shirts,
Not the blood of the letter, and saliva.
Sickle arms hugging your neck,
Ringing in the air to push northward,
There tumbled downed birds,
There's bullets did not dare to make mistakes.
We still find a way, it's all other people's - where not invited, hastily hid
We love to recruit a full breast
And live through the night on the exhale, death.