We all grow old at somewhat early,
With that excessive wear of soul.
In wild winds of human stories
We shed the flood of water-drops.

The bitter swash sounds undulating,
Smashing everything around
Is it forgotten accidentally,
Your soul - the brittlest inside?

High scores, the starts and outputs
Inward and upward penetration!
And falsehood, that sounds in Russian
And platitude, the gain and ooze.

The highs of plans beyond the clouds
And paper chains of squabble,
Of self the desperation sounds
Embraced with bulldog trouble.

And near the suffocation vents
Frustration hiding in the sight
The aged, dilapidated spirits
Are crowdly standing by that side.