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* * *

The noon, the station, and the ticket booth, all those things were relevant, except for us,
Small raindrops dashed onto the crowd lining up along the tracks, for Pavlovsk,
All passengers knew their songs, and played the roles well, except, of course, for us,
As if some genius begetter would
Plop stolen music all around us.

        Dropped in some word, glued a cartoon,
        With laces on the clothes, inside some mediocrity, a popular song,
        Rain was absurd, day was out of tune,
        But out of our entire lives we never had a more important one.

As if inside an empty room, with not a soul around, we learned, and tried to lip,
Some whispered bits and pieces of a spell, amidst that flickering and humming,
Coerced, we tried to animate some hollow syllables and muted dreams,
Too timid to pronounce them loudly,
Too proud to enjoy the silence,

        Somebody's plan took us upon,
        Today it is more evident in it's existence but it's just
        As blurry as then,
        Shyness is gone, pride will move on,
        But spells, they are not going anywhere, and we're not going anywhere.

The century has turned, the station has expanded, norm has poured from the skies,
The old dispatcher was succeeded in his job by one of their heir grandson,
A new express took all the passengers to Pavlovsk, everyone, except for us,
We flounder on the same unspoken lapses still,
As radio emits at random.

        Same as before, popular chimes,
        Not overly concerned with any lack of fantasy, and just the truth they must tell,
        Price of the truth, nickels and dimes,
        A living soul has better things to do, a dead one's, anyway, in hell.