Poetry

Today the snows.
Clarity is broken
By crooked woods.
Some dark and insectoid lines
In search of the vital - I almost hear
Their noise. And I ask you again - shall we dance
On the icy pavement?

What we talk about has completely no meaning,
Though I am not quite sure if you see it the same way.
Few times before that matter was a kind of distortion
In our uncertain development.

As far as I can understand, you always used to say,
That things has got some sense. It is a bit humorous, of course,
Though sometimes I felt offended by that.