I don’t believe that it ended like that, don’t believe it at all, no.
Over there, nothing ever ends, over there, there’s an ocean of air.
Over there, if you want to be with her forever, there’s nothing terrible about it,
Because the terrible doesn’t exist, there is only poverty, and there is nothing
Terrible about that, there is nothing more terrible than what’s terrible,
Like love, which is beneath all beggars, beneath everyone, everything,
But happiness lies elsewhere, not in being a madman, but in seeming
To be one, and in being at the same time a madman who will say,
When the occasion is right, that there’s nothing in the world that’s sweeter than being an idiot.
We’ll end there, because everyone who is looking at us
Has low-set eyes, they are magnificent in the plaster of poses and speech.
Close-set eyes, long plaster sleeves,
The hands are slow, disappear from sight. They are light at the passing of blood and
After a retort. Who taught them the art of direct speech? In which there isn’t a single
Word about how the conifer needles clung to the shoulders, when they didn’t exist
In the first place, and won’t, because what will exist are Parshchikov’s dirigibles,
His flock, my diopters, addresses, telephones, and no oil at all.

Библиография

Жанр: 

стихи

Цикл: 

Памяти Парщикова

Источник: 

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