< Felix Komarov
Spill syrup, it gets stuck in a fly.
The picture that everyone knows.
Walks down the street an old woman,
And her old drunk.
Hastening confident gait,
Dressed in the importance of a businessman.
The girl in thin tights ...
All changes are expected.
Prihlopnet cook spoon fly,
Or maybe it will fly away,
Die old man, the old woman behind him.
The girl jumps out of the window.
Or get married on aerial,
And maybe even love ...
Go hunting for souls,
And they say all lodging vie.
We crawl in a hole on the mire.
Hammering his fingers into the liquid soil,
Sliding every year following.
And build happiness and comfort.
Intertwined roots in darkness.
Merged masks in the night.
Having come to the priest il Lama,
We wish to receive the keys
From the kingdom, where there is no stench.
But do not be fooled flies are.
We are not worthy even of hell.
Forget about us, Lord, forget it!
We again turned to clay,
Embezzlement is your great gift.
Not snakes, and worm crawled out of the heart,
And he turned his whole life in the bazaar.
All on sale of the incident.
All in order to survive.
Whine or threatening Light,
While not burst the death of copper.
We are innocent, like flies,
Caught at conception in the network.
The bodies are thin il bellied,
Heaven will tear the whip.
Struck ominous timpani,
And tear the interlacing persons.
Or we will die out like the dinosaurs,
Do not kneel down.
Himself not to mold clay,
And do not breathe a fire ...
We wandered innocently Winna,
And waiting for his hand,
Soul gently touches ...
From the abyss we have to you thawing,
We live, hope, feeling the skin,
What is created, not for fun.
What is meaningful creations,
That life just seems empty,
And let me shadow, and the shadow of the world only,
But there is a fire and he is alive me!