The mad wolf
At edge of a precipice sits
And shouts on a white circle of the Moon,
Tries to kill dreams,
Because his soul
It is not necessary to whom,
Neither in paradise, nor in a hell.
Neither to whom, nor whom ...
He dreamed of death,
But he is immortal,
Also flies into a rage from that.
The wanderer tortured by a life,
Name which is not known
Neither to whom, nor whom ...
He has forgotten all names,
Which has thought up for itself.
He has left in woods, when still
There was no you and me,
He has taken a place of wood tsar,
In this wood eternal spring
Spoils a life to him.
And you aspire there,
In hope of that this
The life will arrange you,
You aspire to loneliness
As well as I.
I and you we hear this hoarse a wolf song,
And all so went and is ridiculous,
And tomorrow it will be eternal and guilty,
And tomorrow it will be boring and ridiculous,
It kills...
If you have not understood,
That also you will understand when.
I sigh: I sit behind a table,
I look in a glass fault,
Also I see in him myself,
And any ideas pass me,
They to fall on a paper,
As if for you.
I know:
The wolf not when will not die,
Never, never...