Maybe...

"Maybe I'll die today"—a smooth line on a crumpled piece of paper.

"Maybe I'll be reborn then"—on a green sprout of hope.

In the bright sunlight, so simple the silhouettes and thoughts.

In the moonlight on the wall, outlines are sharp and fast.

The petals—sorrowfully of the black roses beautify the bottom of the glass in a tea.

There are not wishes, not illusive pain, just sadness and mute despair.

"Maybe I'll go today"—handwritten is jumping; the letters are blurry.

"Maybe I'll return then"—the shutters at night are open now.

The rustle of a dress and quiet voice, the tart scent of the English perfume.

On the wrists, never knowing a tan, there are chains of the lie and sins.

"Maybe I'll stay at night"—a hollow voice without any shadows of feelings.

"Maybe I'll run away at dawn"—vicious sadness envelops as if a shawl.

She is insensitive and beautiful; black hair falls down off her shoulders.

She is haughty, and her hoarse voice sticks in the brain like a sword.