It's cold again, it's cold...
This evening is just right for moping... In the
radio – "Possess-oblada",
and in a glass of black blood – "Shiraz".
And with the winter you are one on one,
and you can't win, you know yourself...
Isn't it up to you, Aladdin,
that the Sesame has not opened yet?!
And you don't want to do anything, or phrases,
and you don't want either prose or poetry...
The clouds float by in the breaststroke style
with the water area of leaden skies.
But the trouble and the guilt go
away, the chains of fetters are broken
from the quirks of middle-aged wine
and the four Liverpool crickets.
Nothing has yet come its time,
and do not rush to welcome sadness,
if the memory is a charming silk
it is adjacent to the base of the soul.
So do not prepare yourself for the cold,
do not exchange yourself for a trifle...