And in attacks of love to you I knew,
That you and I not the parts of one flesh,
We were only passengers in a plane,
Departed to uncertainty.

Having bought a ticket from the polite destiny,
We paid to her by hopes and dreams,
To destiny the same what happens to us farther
As we are only slaves of accident.

"What if..." - worn out phrase,
There no connection, neither thought, but only dream.
And any unearthly height
Available not only for a reason, but also for an eye.

And this is not despair now grieves in me,
The soul as earth lies under steams.
I didn't sow on it the love for years,
And it grew with tall weeds of passing days.

My destiny, I'm asking you:
I am a runaway slave of patience and boredom,
Sent me of doubts refine torments -
I only value them for now.

I will not tell, will not give out this my pain,
I will be happy, patient in hope,
Yes, I live senselessly, as before,
And on my watch - most stubborn hour zero.

But in notebooks, on sweaty windows,
I madly bring one image out -
And my imaginations rigid ring
Stamps IT at faded dawns...

Be grateful, future Passion,
That my Universe-myself
I did presented humbly
Only to you. Though you and idiot,
But you don't let be lost in unbelief!..

Vladimir Oxikovsky