At the beginning of May
I played, Khabarovsk floating,
on an ice floe thawed
I played ensemble tool,
I played on an ice floe.
On strings hares shivered,
and citizens
flowers and money threw
floating by.
On the bank of warmly and peacefully
conversations flew.
Still streams ran to the course
from under concrete,
still I hung over turn
fog spring.
That blues, Russian, samba
I played ensemble,
being removed to the middle,
on an old ice floe!
Hard music was -
as a wind dumped from a wing,
the river froliced and flew,
sinking into dotage.
Reality - that is more clear, than a reality,
and I would be let by swimming,
I departured, playing an ice drift,
and me would pour on ice
flowers and money!
And hoarse listening to a clarinet,
having been anew on light,
citizens after would look,
shouting silently:
for the first time and not forever
before them - thawed snow,
and a course of the exhausted ice
in a vice of bends!
