By oneself Bashny.Net

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Without past thoughts, illusions,

anxieties and dreams of doubt,

dreams, watercolor,

When you paint with a brush

and a palette knife, and henna and faith, and oil.

Watercolor too wet and slippery

hard gusts smear.

When you stand under the moon

and pray.

About love. About happiness.

Freedom.

What nonsense!

Great artists would say,

it is a complete disgrace, and is clearly a bad taste.

Forgive me, great,

Fixed sober heart begin,

I comb out the brush, palette knife, regrind, adrenaline tinkering.

And there is no longer a mirror in my face

of a number of saints. Just light. And no there is not.

Noted. Umostilas.

Having traveled by tram number six in the void.

Do not panic, do not wait.

I absolutely nowhere

Nothing, no one, for ever.

I did.

And I'm glad I was not myself.

More - so,

How to look at themselves through the brush,

Which smells like a dead fox.

But not me.

I'm in the woods better.

With needles and mint dew. By oneself.