Vladislav Khodasevich. (№ 319975)

I'm glad all: that the city got soaked
That roof, dusty yesterday
Today, clear silk lonjas,
Overthrow of the jet of silver.
I am glad that my passion has dried up.
Watching with a smile from the window,
How quickly you pass
On the slippery street one.
I'm glad you forgot me,
What came out of the porch
You're my window will not look.
Will not throw up on my face.