< Felix Komarov
The usual pain as the pressure of the sky,
In every cell of naked souls,
No place or moan, or even prayer service ...
It is all well and good we are.
We just come every night from work,
And in the morning start, a meaningless day,
And can we hippies, goths il black,
And catch in the night, his shaky shadow.
And if nasyadet viscous morning,
And at midnight on the neck strap will overflow ...
It can be put on the mountaineering jacket,
And together with friends on a long hike.
And the pain is invisible and imperceptible lie,
But the heart of whining like a lost dog,
And something is compressed with the singing of the wind ...
And if zamresh ... then you hear the question.
Why this world, that is burned grass?
Why have I come from and where I go?
Where to find happiness and how to be me himself ...?
And ... you get like a prisoner in trouble.
You looked up and saw the prison,
You looked at the ground, there is an abyss and death,
From the walls stood out like ghosts face,
All those who betrayed him, do everything slowly.
And the pain like a madman tore the chains,
Burst into asleep by the charms of the mind,
And every word you will hear the call,
And the world will be a white noise inaudible.
Noon so that it is not painful,
Put the flour from God this limit ...
Like Job, sin against God involuntarily,
You died and lived again and again speechless.
Gone Is the pain ... all that you say is not true,
It was it ... a ragged cry ...
What will the river, the curse of thirst,
What to say about time, eternity and an instant.