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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The left love

You are afraid, that I will grow fond
Not you, and other man.
Also I will leave you on the brink
Without the special reason on it.

You, are final the rights, as always:
To me to leave from you yes far away,
That neither the sun, nor snow, water
Did not whisper names how earlier.

I would not like to like more
Marble block, sheaf of needles,
Whose is thin a clue,
Whose so the hammer painfully goes down.

1994

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