Poems

The poem always was for me the form of expression of feelings. In two-three stanzas finds room much – the overflowing emotions asking on will of thought, impetuous passion. Not having possibility to give vent to this all on a paper, for a long time would descend suma from an overabundance of feelings. And so – anything, it was possible to consult. Improbably it would be desirable, not spending, certainly, not deserved analogies to repeat thereupon Sergey Yesenin's words: «as to other autobiographical data, - they in my verses».

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Moscow

New Moscow – grey, rainy,
With a dirt of streets crying, with shine of a casino.
You soul are ugly, and self – beautiful,
On the quiet mixed tears and wine.

You not heart, the darling, and border faded
Between Europe, Asia and Russia at once.
That zvenjashche-white, issinja-wet
With hishchnoju uhmylkoju, with pair red eyes.

You will not mention I smother you, you will not light nadezhdoju,
You will deafen by ignorance, the power podsadnyh.
And to Paris old at all the bride you,
And another's passion you among the.

1997

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