None is short on sours to sip
in the days of languor and chill.
Pinch my ear, don't let me sleep -
what is my right shoulder is Thy airfield.
Come and see the wires lying torn,
cold bulb unscrewed from the shoulders' handle,
tiny air charter in the storm
twinkles Morse code to the candle.
Peal of bells bogged down in the mids,
yawning sentries lean against the pillar;
come and pinch, or I may miss
drops of cranberry in the snow pillow.
There I am, pathfinder and will-o'-wisp
of the army in the tempest,
all the world from West to East
in the tension 'tween the tightened temples.
Original: mumidol.ru/gorod/seeds.htm#14
Video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uoKdoiXNy0
Video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbO6RQTvujQ