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Ми помрем не в Парижі

Забуваються лінії, запахи, барви і звуки,
Слабне зір, quenched and hearing the joy of simple passes away. By its very soul
stretch face and hands,
But high and fly it inaccessible.

It is only at the last station platform,
Grey foam separation wreathing swelling up and - here. Already
it corrodes my helpless hands and hateful
napovzaye sweet warmth of her mouth,
remained the love but would prefer it was not.

the provincial bed crying until I got tired,
brydlyvo rosy lilac and looked to the window.
train and went straight love sluggish watched,
how your body under zadyhalas rack dirty,
Zatyhala, styhala banal station spring.

we die not in Paris, now I definitely know it,
the provincial bedding, which is teeming with sweat and tears. And your brandy
not give you any, I know,
Drawn kiss we will not be comforted. Under the Mirabeau Bridge
is exhausted circle of darkness.

we cried too bitter and insulted nature,
too much loved by lovers soromlyachy,
poets wrote poems too naturally despise. We
they will die in Paris, and the water under the bridge
Mirabeau okiltsyuyut escort thick.

(c) - Natalie Bilotserkivets