For it has a purple hue

(blood’s red within me and you

being hot). But now it's cold

Out of sinuous veins flowed,

flooded streets and reached the sky…

Even those drowned who could fly.

Walking In The Night

Hey, buddy, coming out of the night

hangout missing the way to fuck around…

The moon hangs high like bit ripe apple bright

Seeing no earthly use to heed the sound

Of crying for it. Let us then suppose

that that disgrace sets you in gentle pose…

These lights around you rushing like a hound;

An empty buttonhole does want some rose

as red as blood… the last twist of the knife…

It irritates like stained shorts of your wife.

The Parting

She said: 'As you're a native of this place,

and there's nothing more charming than this loch

beneath the sloppy shore, and I can't help

Admiring the landscape, could you tell me

Whether the good weather will end or whether it

will stay for some days more, till comes the cold...'

'Well, what you mean', he said, 'has just begun.

Look down the road: you see no dust blown up

While the wind is keen enough and in between

it's watering your eyes, and if you now

can see across the lake, it's gonna rain

and if you can't, it's damn well raining'.

9/11

For there's no choice: to burn away or fall,

Just smoothly make a start right from a wall,

Aspire downwards, the land to justify

And keep on rushing, deeper than the sky...

STAS BOYKO TUNE

The Old House

The old house just felt sorrow for lilac of florescent summer,

he's like sphinx all along watching over those Memphian tombs,

Cruel tempests of fate does he smite, and his decrepit armour

Is that old wooden wall, that pane-socket which frowns and glooms.

Rusty hinges won't know their song, used to sing any moment,

And the mistress will never adorn this bright place with a rose,

and the fire won't lick crusty woodpiles in their sweet torment,

And the dog will no more give a bark in his sweetest repose.

The old yard's like a bonfire gone: sparks are turned into ashes,

And the leaves fallen down are not of those left on the fence.

So the fella in love turns the music on, tears on his lashes,

While a gal on this chipped board is twisting her farewell dance.

MARINA MATVEHEVA TUNE

1.

Ah, almost each one is possessed

by this sly irony of fate:

We do love those who are the best

And those who are the worst, we hate.

But after all we know a lot

How much it takes to pay the price -

By those abandoned to be loved,

By the adored to be despised.

2.

I am ten years old, I'm a lady-square,

And I just only start to see the books...

Yet no smart chains on me, no sadder looks,