Blank verse

At the Jewish cemetery where my grandfather is buried, I will return to this city, whose sun is a neon dead light, I will return, believe me, my friend - and in a frozen car glass I will walk through an invisible circle to see the frosty evening at the red railway station . Oh, what luck and pity what, what did you and I know in advance, how will this end in this country-frenzied drunkenness, and swinishness and courage in the kitchen war for a beautiful bright tomorrow ... We, mutilated by the rotten flaw of lies, opening the gas in semi-dark apartments, built in such a way that they crammed the dead, who did not love anyone who did not believe even the fathers brought here, into this sun, warmth and peace, God's handwriting repaired with a trembling hand, no one hesitated - a strange sickness suddenly appeared in the middle of the long-awaited paradise: warmed up love and we grabbed his throat, like a polecat ... hemorrhoids that badly healed, she gets out and does not give sleep. And until the night we sit deep, trying to drown in a dimensionless conversation ... We play hide and seek with nostalgia in vain. Homeland ghostly smoke turned into a waste, from which we die ...

  We're done, dear. After all, doctors refused us. Neither the vodka, nor the girls, nor the bullets will save the saving key that opens the skull ... And on a train wildly flying in the night, I will understand, after a long road, my thorn and thorns - I broke into this city, whose name is not pronounced, turn out to be unnecessary, and superfluous, and in general - flying past with its foreign style and force. The cut of the jacket does not mean anything at all, and this show is cheap for a fool. The grim solo of a fuming pipe, covering with ashes the thinnest, almost imperceptible, coffins that stared at the muzzles of windows empty on me. I will go through the crowded hall directly to these hungry fires, waiting bitterly, in the dirty snow, cooling down, of my return. It's hard to believe in this, my friend, but I know now-we are leaving only to return to these streams of Gasoline, the Bright Labor Kingdom, to the glorious childhood ... And this is no longer funny-we ​​are infused into the veins of the sweetest poisoning the wine of our memory, often so capricious and strange ... Wrapped around pretty well-groomed countries, we rush into Russia's nonsense, like a funnel into the water. In this mortal love that is sharp and thin, like mica, our children's fears and young passions are burning ... All you need is a friend - it's just to go back and walk through the city, whispering verses like a prayer. And although today we are far from this dream - God forgive me for already boring refrain! - we will one day realize that her exhausting captivity is endless, alas ... And to the threshold of a severe winter we will return. And so we will calm down.