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But soon things changed.

Before becoming urgent, the pain

Has waited,

And then,

Restarted a promenade in modo russico.

Men in top hats

Stood in a circle,

Whispering to someone

On an empty street:

“No pleasant farewells are possible,

In Russian sense of elegy,

It is too vertical,

Too one-way ticket,

It is too massive!

While Japanese do cherish sweet tristesse,

And sour cherries,

The pleasure of the endings –

Soft hokkus”.

Someone surprising, in a kimono,

Who seemed not to notice me,

Got the fingers out

To touch the water,

In which the full moon

Arranged the opera –

Of Mussorgsky? Or Shostakovich? Or was it rain?

Why was it hot then?

The boiling drops – into my bare hands.

Nothing else


A passing pain was heard.