All lies reserved, the pain stored
in a heart that served, but beats no more.
The pendulum of sound, forgets you, Ivan,
for loving you is wrong.
Wrong if I, be, cursed.
Right if I, blessed be.
For in future lies the form
demanding with love be dressed.
I wear that green cloth
when you don’t, I guess.
Rightly guessed, your alibi has been checked.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem