In morn you are looking in the mirror and you see
Reflection of the past years, gloom-and-doom.
Behind is your life, it is quite definite,
Beyond is emptiness and brume.
It is well known that the mirror never lies,
It is the truthful glass in frame of wood.
The only thought: what is the weather,
Nothing to say about grief and solitude.
The work is over. Shop windows, bright and nice,
Run after you in repetition.
All things are on big sale, with their own price,
The city looks like painting exhibition.
You shave in morn, you make a cut, you feel some pain.
Forgetting that the spring already came,
You put your winter coat on again
And warm yourself with the forgotten flame.
Years run: ten, twenty, thirty, forty…
They are not worth a count anymore.
Now the mirror is a little scared
That it will fail to recognize as it did before.