She had a perpetual low jeans «Lee»,
too long legs, some typhoon wind
dark-red head ... And the eyes without the command "Fire!»
shot you, and read the burial service, and buried
under the rubble of ideas about this world,
so firmly, so as not dug, not otskrebli ...
She had some insanely calling view,
cold-blooded precise fingers as delicate scalpel ...
As such, she die, but do not grieve and do not hurt.
To those to whom they are temporarily favored,
an abyss opens, and with a joyful "immerse!»
victim pulled back the legions of devils laughing.
She had some kind of husband ... Whether assistant,
whether directed at one of the abandoned movie studios.
It was creaky sofa, interiors of bare walls,
and Bacchanalian month ... and the dark, and at the same time,
suddenly bright as the first morning without fever and weakness when
with a feeling of complete readiness of all systems ...
She had a passion - "Gitanes" and Jamaican rum,
and she was like napalm burns all judoka bed ...
And when at dawn, suddenly, like a winter thunder,
leaving forever, leaning against the jamb of the thigh,
I looked back and held «asta la vista»,
you looked at her, looked at as a flaming Rome Nero.