Book: The procession

Rings, beeps, whistles, the works
at the end of all - the churchyard
and death came, and life went
under someone's long tail.

And the day runs and the rain comes,
in the mist of flying cars,
and someone's life we steal,
but it is not clear who.

Goodbye, love, ever call.

The nightmare of the century - nuclear fungus
but we are accustomed to the clatter of boots,
used to a limited food
years only on bread and water,
otherwise nothing browse in mouth
we managed to continue his race,
told the generals names
and fashionable khaki in our times;
always patient and humble,
we lived from war to war,
from small wars to large,
we are all in the blood - his or someone else's.

Feel increasingly in September
that we are all closer to the time
immeasurable loneliness of the soul,
when things are still good
when still sincere words
and thoughts, but the former rights,
which you make up in love
to your friends - call them, don't call,
call them - begin to fade,
and not encouraging to see
another winter like this familiar trail
the new acquaintances of the same eternal light.

But crying about themselves - what a lie!
How do you choose and live.
So, learn with a moment to cherish,
Which is given thee to live,
Not having time to review everything,
In which you can even die
More think, my friend, about myself,
They find themselves in the midst in the crowd,
Faster get out and look
Just once - not inside - from the outside.

It's always - when neither look,
Passes behind the crowd of life,
Unknown, strange sometimes
Where death comes like the first time
And where no one-no one knows us.

And maybe a new home through the rain,
and feel the river, the glass and shivering
thin foliage, go, go back,
familiar and dilapidated facade,
here again in the evening come to life
and with new life my life to sew.

But, as always, not knowing for whom,
Create themselves and their lives do
All the force of their trouble.

When it comes Oct, leave,
On the sides of contemptuous look,
Anyone can kiss,
To deceive, to destroy and ***acce
To disgust, to madness to drink.
But in October don't start to love.