< Felix Komarov
You are constantly reminded of death and this is unbearable, as if shouting, believe me, in this moment, dark blue. But I do not want to believe in this fairy tale ... a bad wind rustles feathers, faces masked. All of us at the carnival, dropping then clothes, dead tired, and rest before will sound flute, softly begin oboes, again we did not have time, again only two of us, circling in a farewell dance, and disappears in the light ... we like the Franciscans, just keep quiet death. Just look at the stars that light drinking a cold ... and forgetting threat moments of flipping a few years. Days like leaves in the clip, rvesh their hand casually, so lays bare branches the wind blind hope, will inevitably fall gives a warm farewell, and the sheet will not ask where discover the secrets of where Zazimya stars, the sky turning a tent ... survive of course too late ... to live and easy and sweet.