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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My grief

I about you did not write verses.
You – only feeling and you – nastroene,
Light withering sleeping houses,
You – my grief, mine you terpene.

I did not wish so gently to like,
Caress to give, scatter kisses.
You – I of reason also lose a thread,
Sights catching and godlessly I am jealous.

It is a pity – up to the end you are not able to understand.
Tritely you play and at all you do not appreciate.
Lines with you – allow to touch, embrace.
Time will pass, give the God, you will grow wiser.

1995

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