* * *

World broken down in ruins.
May is October-faced.
I'm in an empty carriage –
People leave not their homes.

Cold is the gloomy nature,
Rain weaves laces and nets.
My love didn't go with me.
I hate the spring, I do.

Boredom, the book is empty.
Everything goes out wrong.
Too cold to sleep. I just have to
row down the verbal stream.

Vainly – on my red beret
Shower of letters falls.
If the collector comes in,
I will have nothing to say...