Stumbling on the shore, one cannot help but fall into the Sea
Don’t get his pockets full
Do not drive with your face on the turned pebbles
And it’s hard to believe, but you’re in a quarrel with God himself
And your whole life is a drawing on a wrinkled tracing paper

And time runs with an ugly stoop in the back
Puffy bags under the eyes in the morning
And autumn and winter are getting harder
And less often you read your midnight sutras

And more often you are silent, because no one hears
Yes, more often you are silent, because …
And who is nearby?
And if it happens sometimes that you just can’t breathe
Who needs it?…

We lose a lot, not knowing what it is – losses
We run not for that, not there, and we smear our bed
And crumple the sheets with those we don’t trust
Whose name in the morning will not even be remembered …

… Returning home, you take out the Sea from your pockets
Putting on the table of your little crooked kitchen
And glancing over yesterday
tattered curtain
The lip will tremble a little, which has recently swollen from pebbles

And the Sea lives on the table either by storms or by calm
Follows you back
from beyond
And you understand that in this abandoned world
There is no one better than him…