ArtetA: A Cm
Any one in a million thinks he's deprived
By love or power, cold or fire.
One or the whole legion will understand me -
People conquered the world and few people are surprised.
But not him ... He is a musician and a true poet.
Long dreadlocks. He’s a fan of classic cassettes,
But from the very cradle, alas, he did not see the light.
He loves to live, although he is blind in both eyes,
Actor and viewer of his invented legends.
He calmly imagines what is essentially not there.
We are the characters of his unfinished sonnets,
The body will die, but there will be a trace.
look ... at the level of the seventh floor
Ashes slowly dance in the sky and the soul cries.
It is he, our Earth, that lonely guest,
He cries at the window and silently composes rain
We make up the world ...
We make up the world ...
Mental Mi:
He imagined the sky, flew away where he was not,
Ashes on the canvas, talking with the wind.
Sounds of dawn, depth of soul
Whisper of leaves along the alleys
Not in a hurry ...
I didn’t stir up the past ... How much is already possible?
He appreciates the first thunder and warm rain on his skin.
Consciousness still depends on the colors in the soul,
White papier-mâché blooms in gouache
If he wants, he can even tell you all the same
About where there are no passers-by so alike,
About where you can see the soul without feeling a lie.
Hundreds of onlookers, crowding, shouted:
"See? Prove it!"
Drops of the past rain will wash his wounds
In the eyes of the dog, he will only catch the eternities of nirvana.
Quietly lie down next to him, but will not catch the beat,
He was quietly led by the sunset with him ...
We make up the world ...
