SelfPub: poems

And the sky is purple again,
you do the umbrella is not taken.
Symptoms of a St. Petersburg summer:
the heat, walking and rain.
Walking... Morning, noon, and night...
And in the heat and in the rain...
And you never know exactly
where are we, in fact, go.
Here the nights are white, the days are sad,
and sometimes Vice versa.
And without end and without beginning
worldly Affairs cycle.
Neva glitters, water bus
lucky tourists under bridges.
And the sun's mischievous Bunny
calling me to where you are.
And does it matter: whether rain, wind,
day or night, and whether umbrella...
Us together well in the world
even lucky with the weather.

...and everyone thinks she's had one:
this one here in white, and that (forgive, my God) in red,
and the one today and one yesterday.
Funny show. But sorry, what is in vain:
it's all so silly. Pity them, and pity him:
love is exchanged for a residue of individuals and skirt.
Is this. Pass. Will otbelit. Nothing!
Do not want to hurt, do not look. Turn off the show.

It's all over: the pain and the fear,
this feeling, tearing the soul,
like flames from a fire
burning whisky.
The doubts and emptiness
all yours and you will not destroy.
You'll get through this myself
don't hold onto it, let it go.
It will be held. Like a storm in the night.
In the pre-dawn melted the mist.
But remember these eyes -
blue, as in the sea surf.
It will be held. He is not against, not for,
not with you, not at you... He will cheat
himself, denying himself
a quiet happiness to be with you.

Don't want anything to write about.
Tired of words, words...
So tired of the half-century wait
while my life will give you.
Leaving in a silent way.
Will listen, look, breathe.
If I can't return it
it turns out, it makes no sense to call.

Are you shrinking in the sun,
ships touch the bottom
from the river the Creek remains
only the sun-all the same.
Lopevi this song. Enough.
What you did not understand:
for the river flowing surface
need a warm, good rain.
Enough of the sun. Prolase light
become a living water.
Stay, because in this world
you need someone like that.

Read into the string, dig out there meanings.
You want light? Well, take it, sorry.
Let come true - if good planned,
Will be forgotten if the evil desire.
Poetry is the fire burning resentment
And warming love and dream.
I'm a guide. My staff are books.
I am the bridge between the word and destiny.