To O.V.
The moon glides across the lead of the bay.
Coastal rot is a memory of a bygone resort.
Plums await me on table close mine easel gained
violet-blue plums in my future still lifе aquafort.
The footprints of bare feet in the damp constant
sand haunt us, departing from vanity whole
We talk about everything, keeping silent about the important.
Everything unimportant will be gone by nightfall.
You call me the best poet in the world.
You confirm your belief that I am a great artist.
I disagree, I laugh, but I don\'t argue anymore
I enjoy it, like a drizzle in the heat of mist.
While my hands are bored without me, pulse,
and my feet measure the length of the beach right ,
I listen to the frequent, sharp cries of the seagulls,
as if they\'ve been whining about something all night.
Speak, speak, it won\'t be like this anyway, any.
You will remain the first girly among the very best creature
Our destiny is the sum of a thousand destinies,
You are a bird of happiness, and I am a superb archer.
You and I are alone on a deserted beach.
Only restless seagulls watch us.
You are tired, but a stone is covered in seagulls\' shits.
We turn back, touching shoulders.
I was tired, out of breath, running at my limit
ever.
I ran, but in the darkness I couldn\'t see or hear you.
Where are the seagulls? Have they flown away forever?
Where are the angels? Not a single one came to greet me a few.
I tripped over a stone, fell, and woke up. resting
You were sleeping next to me, curled up, pea cefully.
I hugged you, and fell asleep again, nestling
into your hair, so sweetly scented with myrrhs keenly.