Author of quotes: Arseny Alving

The bowl is not easy, with dark suffering
I'm lonely carrying.
Heavy, with strain I breathe, with diligence
And, as in a dense forest,
On untraded paths, unknown,
As if in some kind of delirium,
Bitter fate doomed knowingly,
No respite for the delirium...

Satisfying the demands of the day.

I want to, at least finally feeling
Harmony between the World and yourself,
As if to include yourself in the door of Paradise,
In his rhythmic, full-fledged system.
To include yourself in the dimensionality of the movement,
Actions, moods, facts, words,
That every moment of desire and burning
It was both taken into account and unspeakably new.

And mind is not passion.

You cannot rip off your doors.

Thoughtful evenings ...

Firing points
Irrepressible flickering,
There, in the sky, in its blackness.
At least a small piece
Not a lot of suffering -
A brief rest in an empty void...
No, not the rumble of anti-aircraft guns,
No spotlights trot,
Not embarrassed, not moaning, not "ah!",
Not the mad of torture,
That suddenly became close to us,
Not animal, panic fear,
And the awareance of error,
Hopeless spell
That stupidity: sit and tremble...

To my persistent knock! ..

And resurrects the old suffering.

The mists of the Past are swiring greedily.
The past has stirred. Heart - wait!..
Now she will come and say so gloatingly:
"Only flour awaits us ahead..."
Everything, everything is now moonless, hopeless.
They sing the romance "Leave me, leave!" ...
In an empty living room, it is orderly and ceremonial
And all the cozy things were left behind...

I haven't written a poem in a long time. And that's
I was embarrassed, But I'm silent...
Gaps in the poet's work -
Alas, they are like an executioner.
Ah, it doesn't matter: prison, axe,
Or a polished stiletto,
But he hears a clap in his throat,
Uncoerred, with a year, poet.
A red shirt flashes,
Looming fatal platform ...
But feelings of sorrow and fear
He is preparing a new post.

Suicide? No! I don't accept him.
I will live with my gaze into the ground,
Breathe while you breathe, and there...
I will give the last debt to my poems.
I'll read everything, correct it, cripple it.
And I'll shut up... and when I shut up, I will answer
For all his great sins...

Get off the ground as soon as possible ...

I'm tired of myself, I'm tired of myself,
And that's probably not sleeping...