When the watch stopped its ticking… Don’t you remember?
He resigned himself to the thought of his old age,
To the thought of his solitude… He didn’t tremble.
He just folded his arms, stepped. Was he a hostage
Of his thirst of revenge? Yes, it’s true, as I see,
Yes, he longed for exchange of his hand for your life.
But he’s dead… And this story has ended with it, as for me,
With the closing of his bright and blue starry eyes.
Dear Peter, my boy, why don’t you understand?
Why do you always think just about yourself?
He was real, alive. He had feelings. And now
Don’t you see that this story alas has become
Rather foolish, too child’s? And where did you meet
That the good lives without the evil? Again
And again I’ll repeat that this story needs him.
But you’re sure that it was an excellent game.
Don’t you miss? Don’t you feel you’re lonely, my boy?
I guess, no. After all, you can’t change on a sudden…
You can live reveling endless moments of joy.
Little boy, stony boy from the Kensington gardens.
6.06.06