Madness your at the bottom of the river,
outside the city, near the mouth,
where not to put the net fishermen,
where is rotten footbridge to the old bars
where time does not pass, contrary to
the usual way of life, but flows
in a circle, turns into a funnel
where, if quietly certinomis hell
will respond at the shore quietly.
Still... the devil is in honor, honor.
... Insanity rests on the bottom,
as a treasure of the era are forgotten,
managed, however, to be reflected in the bottom
today, as a slice of a different life,
as the glare of the sun on the damp wall,
like delicate beauties,Degas,
corroded by time for the crumbs...
So life had, it seemed, the road,
but now and the garden, the end of the track,
behind a hedge of white snow...
... Madness under the water,
under the discarded skins of yours
anxious as the sense of foreboding...
Madness always has a name,
but on the lips of non-melting ice
and melt them to carry bridges
the flow of words could not and Vesuvius...
... Preferring large dabs
as a talisman against future madness,
you swallow the fits of anguish.