Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-- W.H. Auden

Танцувам сам - макар и с теб!
Танцувам блус,
прощален блус,
за двама блус - любов и всичко.

It's a story of a man
Who works as hard as he can
Just to be a man who stands on his own
But the book always burns
As the story takes it turn
An leaves a broken man

na kogo e tozi stih?

pyvoto - W.H. Auden
a "so fine" e pesen na guns

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