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Write poems for me
so I don’t read them,
because it is impossible in words
neither be born nor survive after.
I won't be like you
as you want. I'm not a couple.
Neither touch nor kiss
not one step closer.

Draw a fate for me
incomprehensible color spot
and fold it in half
how Rorschach liked to scoff.
Relive her with the word "be"
and believe me - everything that was "before"
disappear like footprints
on the grass. Or even easier.

Write poems for me
so that I do not read them.
I do not hear a word of love.
I can't hear, so draw them
and it will become easy for me
combining yin and yang,
consisting of half
reflections of one’s essence.

***

Napishi dlya menya stikhi,
chtoby ya ikh ne stal chitat',
potomu chto nel'zya v slovakh
ni rodit'sya, ni posle vyzhit'.
YA ne budu tebe takim,
kak ty khochesh'. YA ne cheta.
Ni kasat'sya, ni tselovat',
ni na shag stanovit'sya blizhe.

Narisuy dlya menya sud'bu
neponyatnym tsvetnym pyatnom
i slozhi yeye popolam,
kak lyubil izdevat'sya Rorshakh.
Ozhivi yeye slovom "bud'"
i pover' - vse, chto bylo "do"
propadet, kak sledy ot lap
na trave. Ili dazhe proshche.

Napishi dlya menya stikhov,
chtoby ikh prochital ne ya.
YA ne slyshu slova lyubvi.
YA ne slyshu, tak narisuy ikh,
i mne stanet legko-legko,
sochetayushchim in' i yan',
sostoyashchim iz polovin
otrazheniy svoyey zhe suti.


6 октября 2012 в 23:08

Из дохлой к этому времени английской сказки о придворном Поэте и наивном Принце. Глава 510.