Farewell, my golden pencil with odour of apple;
I have replaced its innards, it works again.
Doesn’t shine as in previous season,
But with inks are blacker than season-less space.
I remember we only drew its planets,
Now we adore it perfectly: vase and moon
Touching each other at an absolute vision angle,
When there is nobody in my abandoned room.
And with sincerity singing the biggest crater,
Perfectly matching the darkness I dance in it,
Smashing fragility with my body of statue:
The box of Pandora and the evil within.
They told me I’m little Angel — I’m really not.
They said the ship is approaching — I chose to swim,
Like I’m the flashiest item in size of a dinosaur,
And Angels begin to drown as I step into the sea.
My windows are always opened: I hear the sound.
The buzz of the roots and their specters under the cosmos.
As if there were dragons and mechanical hounds
Matching their fire-proof scales in the name of love.