The Poet s Last Cigarette

Three in the morning, and the kitchen swims in semi-darkness
Neighbors are asleep, only the fridge hums in the silence
On the table, cold tea and a stack of empty sheets
I searched for a rhyme to the word "life," but found no words
The ashtray is full, like a graveyard of my ideas
I'm tired of being a genius for strangers


They say suffering is needed to write hits
But I look out the window, at the wet bushes
And the streetlamp sways like a pendulum without strength
I've been asking too much of myself for too long...

Припев
This is the poet's last cigarette
Smoke goes out the small window, meeting the dawn
No more need to seek questions and answers
Where there simply are no answers
The ember will burn out, singe my fingers
And I will write "The End" on this war




My Muse left yesterday, coughing, slamming the door
She said: "You love drama more than you love me"
And you know, she was damn, damn right
Instead of warmth, I gave her only words
Beautiful phrases that make the throat scratch
Now we are apart, and it seems we are both free


Maybe tomorrow I'll become an accountant
Or just go for a walk in an old sweater
No notebook, no pen, no pretentious poses
I'll forget the smell of ink and cheap cigarettes
I'll become simply happy, boring, and alive
And all this blues... let it melt away like smoke



Припев
This is the poet's last cigarette
Smoke goes out the small window, meeting the dawn
No more need to seek questions and answers
Where there simply are no answers
The ember will burn out, singe my fingers
And I will write "The End"...


Yes, I will write "The End"
On this war
The last one...
No more need to lie
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