Hours pass, turning into days; months move to years.
My friend, if I want to live immodestly, I should have done it yesterday.
Now, turning her nose away from me, she wants to shoot me.
There is on the first tree that comes across, drive a disheveled golden head into a noose.
Pull she up to make my heels dance
Only she forgot that she would miss.
Are you not sweet? Well, yes.. you won’t call me good,
From the golden fire, only coals remained.
But the wind carries my ashes away,
Without falling into your wide-open eyes by coincidence of fate.
The next time when you lie to a man,
First decide who you are within.
by Artem Miachin
3 August 2016 (with author’s remarks)
Artem.Miachin 