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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Youth

After two me it becomes boring,
From five I rush about, as if an animal.
Thoughts are gloomy, as fragmentary clouds,
All in empty – you do not want – do not believe.

To sense is not present in surrounding people,
There is no rest in frightening dreams.
In seven me impudently awake,
Turning inactivity in ashes.

It is visible, the life and goes on a circle
And zhelanja throws in darkness.
It is easy to you to give the diagnosis to an illness:
«The one who hurries spring» is gloomy.

1994

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