8

Hello, incoherent autumn,
Strikes at the memory like a pendulum.
I'm searching for you - eight,
Illuminating the outskirts with hundreds of novels.
A dreamy artist,
So hard to write without wine.
The muse as an image...
Endless black canvas,
Imaginary panic...
Caught me.
Reducing with lines of melting,
- I'm never for anyone,
And no one is for me.
A moment of silence...
You're like desperation - so fiery.
Like a stalker on the heels,
The heart like a monument,
A dense monolith up to the shoulders.
With the colors of a red lantern - you're mournful.
You're on the road too - also alone.
In Khrushchev's swamps - covered with gray blankets - sorrow blankets.
And in this unrestrained search,
At the borders of the same story,
Maybe we'll meet with our eyes,
And the thaw will come.