Shairi

From the lyrics of this summer

As if all relatives in the country; as if long and tired
I am going to them by train from the August Station;
The city is pink and dusty, Friday evening, sunset.
I take a closer look - no one sees, or see
But they are silent.

Meanwhile, it is already quite a little, or more,
than quite
Something stretches like this, either super, or not,
Something most of all the fear, obscuring the light,
Hellish circuits and colors, for which there is no word.

But neither panic of the universal, nor a hitch, even a brief,
Only occasionally look in the same direction
stealthily -
And again, the eyes are awarded, hiding terrible at the bottom,
Everyone in a hurry to leave - also, maybe, to the relatives.

Well, maybe, in fact, only one I see it -
These flashes and bursts, this frantic slurry?
I am in the last week, in this heavy heat
I can’t distinguish from sleep, I won’t collect everyone thoughts?
But the doors are habitually puffy and stretch out
Vedas,
Wires of indefatigable descents are smooth, ascents,
They will remember again and look out the window
Semi -steams are completely on -so, or -skoye, or -not.
But among the native names will suddenly look through
non -native -
Either something belt, or something root;
Someone's girl will cry, in the middle of the people is not visible,
Belaya’s horse suddenly jumps, without a horseman, one.

But then again everything is peaceful - linden branches
pump,
Grandmas with grandchildren go out and meet parents,
Sweaty relatives go - white bags in their hands -
Take a walk for the weekend, delve into greenhouses.

And they will meet me like a kilometer
on the thirtieth,
We will go to our plot under the red
sunset,
And the one floating side, the other, terrible color
I will feel the back, but look around - no.

However, maybe he seemed, but mixed up
And spread?
I can’t believe it here. The smell of asters, the smell of phlox.
Tea in the course of the conversation. Hot sides cups.
The whole path along the fence in white stars of tobacco.

News of stupid children's talkative avalanches.
Black -bearing and raspberries, sea buckthorn, Kleschevina.
Everything is fresh, plow, wet and others cannot become:
We’ll finish tea, close the windows, we will lie on the veranda
sleep.
And you go into the garden, quiet, where the grass is dry
terribly,
And you try not to see the bushes to the fence
cling
How Lacrimose enters in Aina Kleina Nacht musical
And the sky is opened by a dazzling tongue.