Dedicated to Yury Semenov

It seems to me the world is mad...
Late in the morning I wake up at last.
Each night I spend with thought of you,
Trying to come back to the past.
Exhausted by intensive roaming
Within the dark maze of reminiscence
I have a rest before the fancy table of mine.
I eagerly and fast drink wine   
To fall asleep and lose my sense.
A morning comes, the usual headache
Rubs salt into my sores and makes my body shake.
I swear: no more of alcohol I’ll take.
But late at night my friends invade the kitchen,
Inanely, noisily they chat with me
And I again go on the spree.
Days, weeks, months, years – they run fast all,
While I am sinking into coma.
Often my neighbors in a drunken brawl
And cats in love give mutual caterwaul...
It seems to me the world is mad....
Whipped cream of snow on high roofs is laid.
I sip my coffee by a labeled barricade
And feel as empty as a bottle dead.