I feel the wind that afraid to blow,
I see ashes that fall like the snow,
I touch metal that bleads from the rust,
I see the sky with no hope and no trust.

the sun is so pale as ghosts of the past,
are dead all the machins that runed so fast,
somewhere in the deep they left there alone,
as gravestones they stay like they stood there before.

Air that I breath is dusty and cold,
is broken and killed the moment I hold,
the silence is flying over the top,
I'm only one here and I'm just a fop.

Посвящается рассказу А. Б. Стругацких " пикник на обочине"
и
А. Казариной