Book: Kootchie. Page 1

I would erase, but erase the one that is like a beacon behind them, the one in poverty and simplicity shines in the night, by some star, blue.

I have abandoned poetry, spat on the leaf, at these leaves.

I'll drop everything. Going fortunately there or to trouble hospitals, dungeons, but whines the sky at the wrists, pining, looking for your birds.

But every day, stubbornly and persistently squeezing the circle, I am haunted by the memory of the incomprehensibility of your hands.

We are left nesovershenaya earthly pain lesbica meetings.

Collect lives in the bag would go.

Don't be satisfied with one Vagabond lifestyle, the fate of love will take the tax.

Raznilis the sky at the wrists, yearns to be with you, but waiting for maturity and feeds fables - wait, you will meet. Wait...

Then you will understand - nothing again, then you will understand - it was in reality, when you look out the window of the hospital on the first spring foliage.

Then you will understand that youth is priceless, and then realize that all the nodes of destiny
beautiful, single stage, and someone to be there, only you decide.

Fight, sing. In drowsy idleness, take your time. Look, look around, look at all. And achieving the purpose, again go without dropping hands.

Hold on to the heat of rushing and wandering, stay for the thirst to know and want to live. While you are young and brave and rowdy, yet had the stained glass Windows.

Don't know how beautiful, flawless, do not know how cool - is lit, it burns in me - the heart and the clay from which sculpt I poems.

Crumbled in the hands of a penny, those bloodless, cold, looking for happiness under the benches and undressed for the weather.