(In coffee-house, after the sleepless night...)

From ChRONS AND MAXIMS

* * *

In coffee-house, after the sleepless night,
Reminding me myself a worn carcass,
I'm poking with the fork my cold gele.
My coffee can't awake me anymore.
And Olga tells me something 'bout the Weed,
She swings her rasta braid, so thin and pale,
And I look outside, where the city sparrows
Are restlessly exploring coffee-house
And pecking ages' old and dried crumbs.
And I should rise and throw to them some more,
But it drags down to even move a finger.
I want immediately to fall in sleep,
And also ask my sweet companion Olga,
Can sparrows visit coffee-houses freely,
Or it's a hallucination of a kind.
But coffee's over, working time is coming,
And we are shuffling for a cigarette.