Here and there, well, well , barely -
there legs , then immediately head .
And like Aphrodite from the foam of beer ,
every morning he is born again .
What a terrible smoke, what a terrible children ,
his mother's age , his offspring shout
He sits on the roof , warm as a loaf of bread ,
picking his forefinger sky .
Snowing from a hole in the sky ,
through a hole he can see someone's white eyes ,
he does not eat , does not sleep , he hears voices .
A feeling that in the ceiling ,
for the frosting , glaze over , for the heavenly fire
someone constantly whispering about him.
For ... what the world is , when it is not a feast in the name of love .
Here and there, he lived to be 25 years old,
his money crumble like stale bread ,
but these gifts zadripannyh fairies
still enough for books and port.
What a terrible smoke, what a terrible children ...
Yesterday he had dreamed eight cubs
and in some respects he calculated them
eight of their unborn children .
Snowing from a hole in the sky .
All cubs close their gray eyes ,
time for us to sleep on the thrice- three hours.
Maybe in some distant country ,
windy on Venus or on the full moon ,
someone also sleeps and sees us in a dream.
For ... what the world is , when it is not a feast in the name of love .
Snowing literally every year.
Generation comes , born out , and the snow is coming.
He will go lie down and go again .
