
... but the worst consequence of all these years,
Whatever Wednesday I take
There was not a war, not annexation, no,
Not the army
Not a pandemic
Do not take off the arrears, a shaft of theft,
Not the growth of bureaucracy with a pop
Not even tile Moscow -
The Lord would really with this tile, -
Not hundreds of arrests, take away freedoms,
Not the frantic growth of the pedestal,
On which pocket nimodrod was erected*, -
But the fact that the worthy word "people"
It was literally abusive.
The person is a supervisor, the Sudy people
He went to an invisible plan of being:
There is some kind of herd
And I began to carefully think
That so he, in general, is necessary.
And I began to be not the same people,
Defender of Ugra and Nepryva,
And the gray mixture of Armenians and beards,
Invumones of persecution,
Railless.
And it seemed to me that the flat bottom
I considered a cosmic abyss
And the bottom resident needs one thing -
This is a shabby crossbreaker.
That there are no people, but there are a majority
Wandering down the spiral,
And the wrong ones are not those who loved him,
And those who despised him
Since he was not a fighter and creator,
And the eternal service of the harem,
And the clay disk serves him a face,
And the gaze is piercing
Prison.
Forgive me, the people, that the poet succumbed,
That I believed in black words -
But you are in these twenty senseless years
He gave the basis for that.
I have an unusual look at you -
Not Cain, I'm not a demon!
But you yourself have become a mean crowd
Pressed in moderation and moderately dumb:
Nobody made you it.
Forgive me, people! But still a little bit
Literally a little -
And I would believe that all your essence
Was in the fall from God.
And I turned away from you, mourning
His distrust is reluctant to relieve.
And this is worse than February, October,
Any revolutions and couples.
And the fact that I no longer believe in you -
There is a worst result.
Or the best.
*Babylonian king, God -fighter