Nerve

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Days of monotony sinking in circles

Bruthing for a grasshopper. Only

The smell is not weathered - and in the meadows

Roslito bitterly.

Whose ubiquitous, eternal whim,

saturated with honey, sadness,

sleepily absorbing dreams and breeze,

upholstered to the mouth

the time of the river warmed by warmth,

With a mild name summer

I was near-now already somewhere? ..

Windy woman like leaving

He wounds the absence of complete

Feelings of the response ... He wants a year

Not in memory - the waves.

Will I not count? Will be counted. How to.

Summer - Imagine! - At the end.

Moisture will appear on dark -skinned cheeks

If - according to the weather.

That would, as before, on a platoon of trigger,

and not coming from the victim

too confident these circles

Entraise ... Hush, nerves!