ChamomilesThere are planes flying in the sky all day, they are probably carrying someone to his vacation in Pattaya.
But I am in an open country dragging on foot by wild grass, to my friends Vasily and Roman who died from alcohol.
Not just one of my friends lies on one of these country cemeteries, where warm wind sings a song about counterfeit vodka playing the oval photographs.
The guys chose their road by themselves; but, God sees, somebody pushed them and let them down.
So (they did not have) jobs nor homes, just bottles and glasses. So instead of Vasya and Roma, just cornflowers and chamomiles.
Not just one of my friends lies on one of these country cemeteries, where warm wind bounces amazed, remembering all the blue crosses by their names.
But all words are vain and nothing can be fixed, so all I can do is to put a bouquet of chamomiles into a tin can.
Let it will just stand there and be the most beautiful on a village graveyard in (of) a country named Russia.
* In Russian, Vasily (Vasek, Vasya) sounds close to "vasilek" (cornflower), and Roman (Roma) reminds "romaska" (chamomile).