The train called “time”

I mount the train at the Lying-in Hospital Station
The new born infant first wailings are like departing whistles
With the invisible steersman, the train goes zigzagging
On the railway of my own destiny

The location, the month, the year and the steam off time
And with my birth certificate that turns into a ticket
I’ve gone through 40 stations in the past
There remain how many in the Futuristic Coming days?

Only a prophet can know about that
As well as where will be the last station and
when will be the ending minute
While my hair turns windy and snowy
I dream of the twenty years old antique station

My life has no return ticket
The train called “Time” travels coldly and callously...


No. 9 Drobroliubova st. Moscow July 6, 1994