On the radio I was informed that it was not a dream.
There is no music, there it became ridiculous and purely,
And I am indifferent to the sunset from the White Raven,
After all, somewhere on the roof hanging my pacifist flag.
And somewhere the war and the decisive battle is underway
On the ground is crossed, underwater, hilly.
Soldiers for death are departed by a friendly crowd,
And somewhere on the roof, my pacifist flag hangs.
Oh, how good two weeks live without news,
Record thoughts and, jumping, throw away the leaves.
Knife I scratch notes on the beach sand,
And somewhere on the roof, my pacifist flag hangs.
And hears the roar, because everyone here happiness is a whul,
And I, as before in the notepads I write my thoughts,
I am music, like a plane, I send in the flight,
And someone on the roof threw my pacifist flag.
On the radio I was informed that it was not a dream.
There is no music here, it has become ridiculous and purely,
and in the house on the contrary, between old unspoken windows,
Hanging illegible dirty pacifist flag.
