Now wouldn't it be nice to scatter in a bird flock sideways. It wouldn't be too bad to crack a grass blade through the asphalt.
No, not now; again there's home to go back to, right when the last tram is thudding away the past 24. And again there's the gray veil of rain-threads in the morning, right when the kettle is warming up on the stove. All this, a foolish, ridiculous aspiration of a miracle; akin to waiting for the spring to slide in when the autumn has just fallen. Anxiety, a gas to slip in every pore. And every song I've heard from you is a wad of pain. Are you lonely? Well, loneliness is the draw for every one as deep, as beautiful, as strong. Now, what is there to alter?
Just let my palms make you feel warm. And then, tomorrow, we'd make a nice little plane out of paper and fly with it all the way to the horizon, the one that you can see out of that window. Oh, the apartment blocks is all that can be seen there? But we could certainly climb to the roof of our house and feed some bread to passing birds! There, can you see how clean the sky's become?! Just do allow me make you feel warm in my palms...
Translated from Russian by Dennis Cooguy