IDIOTS WITH AN INTERNAL TRACE

Once, when we were young,

with our eyes fixed on the night

we flew. Outlines rose

touching the thickest — thighs.

Once... Wasn't it too late

to disturb young souls?

We burned with love — immature.

And slowly we swam in tears.

And slowly we arrived, naively,

at pain and longing — evil.

Exposing hearts, united,

under seagull waves.

Longings — freedom taken over,

raising ridiculous heavens.

And they fall into old age, mature,

idiots with an inner trace.