Making a verse feels like dragging a boat.
The sand will heap up the hull, no one will take a note.
What's left are those windblown
as few as two birds alone,
Climbing up, white,
Plummeting, black,
Maybe it's fright
Maybe a brag
Maybe both together, maybe mere chance.
I write on the sand, it is better than burning paper.
The wave appreciates turning letters to mist and vapor.
I'll send you a tape with a record of river splatter
and how they turn
yes how they turn
the former and the latter
Climbing up white
Plummeting black
Maybe it's fright
Maybe a brag
But white falling down
And black gaining height
Could be a frown
Or shameless delight,
Maybe both together, maybe mere chance.
Original: altwall.net/texts.php?show=tequilajazzz&number=39936
Original/audio: tequilajazzz kroogi com /ru/download/365434-Chernaja-i-Belaja.html
Original/video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-cwQ5k9uxs