Your tears combed my hair,
With your prayers the runways
Bear me up, removing from your voice
And your eyes, in the sky's veil.

The moments with you, as tops of the memory,
You govern over the shine of feelings and images,
How many miracles you will be given me,
Miracles under the name - grief...

My carpet is weaved from you and poverty,
With a great variety of ornate,
But new pattern won't lay over it -
The pattern so waits for peace.

By eyes of yours, distant as stars,
I am conducted to my world with misted-over glasses,
To the world of gray houses under faded decline,
To the world of streets
where a scope is died.

I already damned all my promises,
Squeezed out in a vacuum of parting,
With passion whispering them to you as a spell,
Do understand, I read farewell.

We bought from the life a couple of bright months
With honey infusion for a treasured meeting,
For a casual meeting and imperceptible,
But the case didn't come.

Why do you wait for me,
Primordial -
By dawn or by evening, strange traveler,
Forgotten by day, and desired at night,
Where honor devoured by darkness.

I betrayed everything that remained behind the conscience,
Having lodged you in the never-ending story
Of my evenings. Everything is trampled by pride,
Which often drives mad.

Don't wait for me, listen, neither by day nor by evening,
I have nothing to put on the altar of expectation,
With crimson dawns sky is brightened,
As though it over drunk blood.

I fly, being between God and the Homeland,
The hairs are mourned, smelling with currant,
I whisper to you with the throat torn apart from a lumps -
Do remain in a riddle of love.

Vladimir Oxikovsky