Aleksey Dayen

Whenever you play it
It turns out this way
Unsolicited bookshelf
And a beauty of the author's face

Fifty forgotten hearts
Compete for the perfection
And become listeners
With no support for the small press

And few-very few of us-
Jewish boys with gray hair
Still publish poems that we are fond of
For sake of fresh air and rotten souls

Every day we look for reasons
To stay alive
We publish,
Put some lines down

I dive
Into the desert of a few survivors