Master of the tombs of the Shattered, King of the Ice Land,
Looks with dead eyes at those who come later.
Sand, like tear moisture, his eye sockets are full.
He catches visions with a pale, toothless, withered mouth.
The goddess comes with snakes in her tousled hair
It comes easily in time, and her eyes are empty.
She was glorified by the ancients in insane nightly verses,
At the feet of her marbled color they dropped oaks.
And in the sky Sirius sparkles - hunting dogs a star,
And the moonlight shines in split coffins.
And the dead are thirsty, they dream of water, water ...
Leafs through the pages of the yellow dry hand of Fate.
And the grains that are thrown into the soil, dream of the light of day.
Lovers embrace fiercely on the black naked earth.
And someone throws rustling volumes into the mouth of the fire,
Trying to keep warm in the deadly cold November haze.
The wine is sour in a glass, stale bread on the tablecloth ...
One like the other, years fly over the world.
He plays the harp of a broken gray-haired and sad Phoebe.
Blind geniuses draw me on canvas - always.
And I'm spinning, mad, in a sparkling void
Not seeing point-blank desperate efforts to call me.
And the faces in the broken mirror are not those, and the words are not those.
And that means, again, in Reality, having recreated ourselves, to play.
Play while entertaining the scary King of Iceland,
Silent, motionless, immortal dead man,
And to feed the mouth that decayed their own and others' dreams -
To the very roar of the trumpet, to the very days of the end.
