(To Jasur Abdukayumov)
I believe in the finish point of my life
A little whistle-stop in the end
Where your train are going to
And you're holding one-way ticket
Not believing that finish is hard by
Bettering your crown on your head.
You take your place in a comparetment
You're bored there alone or, maybe, with family,
In appearence you're unbroken
But inside you're barricaded
Destroyed and castrated
We won't speak about it, ok?
You're coming out in Deli, finding truth
Looking at corpses, that swimmimg in Gang
That's why people travel to India
To know they will be taken by HIM too,
They won't be left during last way
And whole wolrd collect twigs for their bonfire.
That's why people travel to India
There nothing keeps them for life
But if keeps, it's thin steak
When you can turn out and break.
You are sleeping away your dirty India
And rolling the deep every next day.
No one tells about the whistle-stop
You just overlook it in a gap
The traffic controller announsing last station
The neighbors on the bed conclude
That life is shit, and pack up their things,
Prepared to exit way back.