The Age of LOW ART

The Age of LOW ART

 

It was a sin, when I was born,

as a horse which had a horn,

and woke up the first Unicorn.

 

What is the Love?

A migraine of heart.

It’s of the pain some kind,

And Hate is the migraine of mind.

 

People say that the Earth is ours,

But I stay here for many years,

 I was searching some mine things

For many and many hours

But I could find just only my tears.

 

If I’ll die,

I’ll be sorry for my sins that I did.

But look at my eye,

I’ll be sorry for sins

which I didn’t spit.

 

In every our dream

was hidden the bitter of the end,

It isn’t more than the dope,

And every day which you in dream spend

Isn’t so sweet as is the hope.

 

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