The metro car is rocking like a nightmare’s metronome.
The Berlin wall of faces and crooked glances.
Here is a basalt woman in goggles. What was her dream tonight?
The whole planet’s fate depends on it.
Is she a spare tire in a self-sufficing world?
An outsider throughout, with migraines and lust for white chocolate?
Life is inevitably aging and losing its chestnuts;
The Universe drops down its hands with felt pens –
all these billions, everything is going to hell!
I wonder, if the rainbow spectrum contains no color
of her hazel, apprehensive eyes? Someone has torn out
a wire from the cable of the humanity – perhaps no one will notice.
I am looking at her and feeling that
something is going wrong with this world.
An egotistic logic is casting pearls,
but I am not a 'swine sapience' – aim higher!
She is one of the diamond’s carats, the meaning of my life,
yesterday is falling to pieces without her,
like a trump’s shack in a downpour. Without her
the lines will smear like melted ice-cream.
She stares into me with that rhino look,
and instinctively presses to her side her handbag
with the purse and keys to the house. To another world.
And the whole planet is hopelessly swarmed with Bradbury’s butterflies,
is flaring with Bradbury’s people like in a silent movie.
And the image of the world is changing every second, minute, hour,
as if it’s mercilessly whipped by an electric charge, a tank, a Tanka.
(from Russian)
original: http://www.stihi.ru/2013/01/07/5447