The wind is raging--
Soon the rain arrives.
The summer ends--
The summer of our lives,
While I'm wondering
If you all had fun--
Yes, you out there,
Tanning in the sun,
And you alone,
Drinking in a bar...
The wind is raging
At the passing cars
That go by like
Seconds on a clock,
While opportunity
Always seems to knock
And knock forever
On somebody's door,
And I don't really
Know anymore
What summer is,
What's autumn?
And what's spring?
To me the cold and frost
That winter brings
Remind me of the cold
Inside our hearts...
And what is poetry?
And what is art?
And do we really want
To see the truth?
Why do we waste
Our energy and youth
On sports, success
Or some elusive dreams?...
The wind is raging,
And it somehow seems
To be a vain
And superficial chase,
While we can never
Really come to face
That which we are--
Our self-important masks
Are much too grand
For our own good.
Yes, there's literature
And even Hollywood,
And I could write
About the lakes and trees,
The scenic mountains,
The technological disease,
The infrastructure,
And the social ills...
There's a storm in me,
But I'm still,
Not knowing where I am
Or where I'll be.

                                    August 27, 1995
                              --Alexander Shaumyan