Пишу тебе из пасмурных краёв Где дождь наполнил...

I am writing to you from the cloudy lands
Where rain filled the city to the brim
Water in which everything is reflected
And everything does not turn into wine

I am writing to you from the northern latitudes
Live fish are dead sprat here
Here puddles - one third of the water and two - gasoline
It doesn’t touch the sim card here forever.

I am writing to you from the southern shores
Where closely on Olympus from the gods
Where the beaches are empty in October
Where everything reminds of you

I am writing to you from those monasteries
In which there are no windows or doors
There is nothing and honestly
That there is no monastery itself

I am writing to you and looking at the sunset
Like a man who gave his life for so
I look, rushing into the heat or in chills
How a skyscraper falls to the ground

I am writing to you over brick walls
I am writing on the Novgorod birch bark
So write on scraps, on shreds
Blind, that without glasses and that with glasses

I am writing to you that I am flying home
What is soon parting off
I am writing as long as the red traffic light
I write until the iPhone runs out

Any things will turn into trash
No one remembers who built the temple.
Such a life is not sugar and not silk
Here they remember only the one who set fire to the temple

P.S. I am writing to you, I am writing!
Hello to you ! You - and the baby!
So long to build a temple and burn in an instant
Only the one who erected this temple can.