My joy committed suicide, and I enjoy
Drinking sweet wine on rooftops of decoy.
One – left for dreams, another – for surprises,
One more for coolness of the sun that rises.
Without a passion touching me with rays
Of innocence of feelings that turned grey…
The last moth dies as day approaches skin;
No more desires, no more pain, no strain:
All marked with dust of past and taste of future,
That keeps the joy locked in a falling pain.
With no regrets I’m drinking blood of all what’s nurtured,
Of all what died when joy committed suicide…
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