Thoughts at the pot - Hungry, late in the evening. I walk through puddles in the dark.

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                     THOUGHTS AT THE CAULDER...

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                          * * *
  
<< Footcloth and black mouse ....................................
...................................................................
...................................................................

      Hungry, late at night. I walk through puddles in the dark. All for
stiff.  There are torn socks and torn shoes on my feet. There is no sky
instead of it hangs a huge footcloth. I'm drunk with despair. And mumbling
chu:
   - Alexander Pushkin.  Lumen coeli Santa rosa. And how thunderous it is
threat.
      Am I going crazy or what? The shadow from the lantern ran. I know: mine
shadow. But she's wearing a top hat. I have a cap on my head. The cylinder is mine, I'm with
carried the hunger strikers to the market. Good people bought a parasha from it
lali. But I won’t take my heart and brain to the market, even if I die.
      Despair. There is a footcloth over my head, a black mouse in my heart... >>

  

                          * * *
  
           You're walking down a dark street, a machine gun in your hand,
           Your steps thunder like avat,
           Your job is simple - to kill,
           And you cannot understand what pity is.
           Nuclear rain and dirty skies
           But you don't care, your weapon is your body.
           My brain is better than your analyzer,
           After all, you're notMan, but only 

                                            TERMINATOR...    
  
           You would give a lot to become a man
           But you don’t want to trade strength for reason.
           What to do if life is like this,
           This is the law, you must choose one thing.
           Sometimes it seems like something is wrong in the world
           And that every person is your sworn enemy.
           But you fight to the end, you don't need a generator
           After all, you are a Man, and not some 

                                             TERMINATOR...


                            * * *
  
                 Again, like in the old days,
                 I'll buy fish to go with the wine,
                 To distant mountains, to clouds,
                 I will look with calm eyes.
                 Clean wind, clear moon,
                 I will repay the poetic debt:
                 I am a carefree person
                 Lazy, direct.
                 No special gift
                 My path is not marked.
                 I say goodbye - it's time to go home.


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