"Я не то что схожу с ума, но устал за лето..."
(Иосиф Бродский)
I'm not exactly going mad, just tired this summer.
Reach into the drawer for your shirt and the day is lost.
Wish winter really quickly came and covered
these cities and people, but first the greenery.
I'll sleep without undressing, or read from any place
someone else's book, while the remainders of the year,
like a dog that ran away from a sightless,
are crossing in the proper place the asphalt.
Freedom -
is when you forget the patronymic of the tyrant,
and saliva in the mouth is sweeter than halva of Shiraz,
and though your brain like a ram's horn is bent,
nothing drips from the blue eyes.