Dali

A little boy is sitting on the roof

Dropping his short legs downwards.

The whole city is below him,

The houses with stretching higher roofs.

And he with his thin hand defines

Red glow flooded heaven design.

The soot inside his soul is dark

Because he’s scared of being alone.

His heart is trembling like a scared bird, like a magpie,

But daring to find a glory of hope

In sad faces of passersby.

It’s dull, miserable, like sharp pain in a chest, so childish.

Hope has been living in his heart for so long

But nothing lasts forever.

Keeping it now is even disgusting as it’s a nasty thing.

The problem of the boy as person is

The problem of the whole life, it’s eternal.

Hundreds of thousands ideas, so many versions,

All of them are colouful, like Dali’s creations:

Children of the Earth are "Faces of War” by Salvador.

The gist of the mankind is surrealism.

The surrealism of the masterpiece "Giraffe in a Flame”?

Nope, it’s "Autumn cannibalism”.