In the quiet rhythm of my life,
light appeared Suddenly.
And being not afraid of burns of spark,
my moth flies To him.

He flies straight, carelessly,
Forgetting about difficulties of roads.
And looks in distance, playing pryatki,
And zhdet:"Well where are you light?"

A fire sparkles so beautifully,
But somewhere there, in deaf distance.
And a moth, in the gusts of imaginary,
did not fly half-way.

So can be flaps are vain,
not burnt, white covered.
And light to him so nice,
Just by a ghost here ...