Пыльные хроники

A district of paneled slabs, where the air smells of dust,

I remember this way of life like a fairy tale that became reality.

Father is always in the shadows, mother in tears in the kitchen,

Their cries are the days that will irrevocably collapse.

I built a world outside, from sticks and cardboard,

While life burned in my window without a groan.

A boy with the eyes of an elder, not a penny in his pocket.

I learned to smile, barely breathing.

Slin is blind on the beat, these are the chronicles of concrete,

Where truth lies in simplicity, and childhood is outside the law.

Not everyone who gave us life is worthy of being called “mom,”

My path is a continuous ledge above a scorched panorama.

Icons on the wall, but not a drop of faith in them,

All I have with me are scars and chimeras.

Slep Slin on the beat, these are the chronicles of dust,

About those who forgot to love me in the dark.

The years fly by like an arrow, erasing watercolors,

That yard has long been foreign, and the boys have matured.

Some have sunk to the bottom, some have risen to the top,

And I’m given only one thing — to go against the grain.

I’ve seen their love — a cheap imitation,

And the bitter taste of the words that follow me.

They wanted a son who would be like everyone else.