And the night is fresh as if for the first time,
Perhaps, I would cut it with a razor,
But stars are barely visible,
Everything spins
On the invisible orbits of clouds.

And the world is so dense as if for the first time,
When I feel its tight throat,
The world whispers: never and not now,
And my cries
Are silent like oblivion.

Into oblivion, everything will fade,
Everything will sink into darkness,
Perhaps, the darkness of this cool night
Has already taken the lost dreams and stars
Into a deep void.

The night gives me all the dreams to count,
Like a storekeeper, worn-out shoes,
And I, like a clueless stargazer,
Search in the darkness for what will not be,
And will never be,
And will not happen,
And my constellation
Is merely nails driven into planks
By some seemingly untalented carpenter,
And I gaze, unable to look away,
And something reddens with fiery regret
In my garden, only stars are just nails,
For me, there are no skies beyond the roof of my garden.

But the night is fresh,
And I must savor its thick merriment,
Indifferent as an ironic housewarming celebration,
A wanderer in a new box for fishing gear,
And I, like a true lover of a good joke,
Shall enjoy the narrow gulp
Of this untouched yet so dishonorable night,
Filled with the fire of cold dots.