Так начинался день

Woken ice crying for Monday
By the beginning of the parish of blurred doors.
Someone quietly climbed onto the windowsill
And sadly looked at the happy people .
Color three times is not predictable
At the crossroads of asphalt tapes.
The pursuit of the fear of being killed is not ,
Becomes a habit for dolgost years.

A crumbling city on the black and white ,
Blowing a juice poisoned days.
A forgotten sky of alienation
Throwing at the feet stencils shadows.
She knows what she does not know the reality .
She sees where not see the lights .
Her silver in my anonymity
Laid down , when we were alone .

And time passed from the fingers on the strings ,
Weaving in words the meaning of past years .
And the trees were poured on the ground,
Touching the leaves of your epaulettes .
She'll never know about the stone ,
Lying at the bottom of the transparent river ,
And her wet oval cloud nights
Will not brighten squared love.

Thus began the day ...