We are

The butt of a culture in shards of dark moon
Will measure my pulse by piano of win
But will I remember my rampant x-gene?
But will you remember my veins of a teen?
And will we forgotten by this winter soon?

Measuring the depth of my crossroads of words,
To fill in the galaxy traps of my head.
And maybe, I will be defeated in bed,
Or, maybe, you will be a winner, but sad.
God built our ships, but we’re captains on boards.

Suppose someone thinks that I am it is you,
While others predict that the God this is he.
But all to himself guessed that dreams are so free.
And try to build dreams, but they can’t to build tree.
And all understand, that it chaos of new.

Try finish beginning of my spoken works.
You can break routines of your calm every gen.
The wealth and the death will be always in win.
There’s butt of a culture of love in your spring.
It festers forever, while we break the locks.

Andrey V. Zakharov  (22.08.2010)