Machine

One person can love a machine? I did.

Gears...they've rhythmic moves.
Dark brown colour, gives the papers to press
Ever same moves carefree.
One guy nearby, such standing
Makes it control with his hand.
Machine is working honestly non-stop.

It's a press machine.
I watched it with wondered eyes,
spelled me that spectre.
In the dark evening near the shop,
Machine is working like a carefree snob.

I was watching but in other hand
Worried tripping my eyes around;
People who sees me can think about me, crazy.
Like eternal, rhythmic moves.
Can it turn a people? Can be a miracle?
If I love it enough level...

I was going there almost every day.
More and more I tied it.
My spirit slowly turned to the machine.

One day in the dusk, one guy in the park.
He was watching me with evil looks.
I went away inside a pain.

Can it turn a people, if I give it my soul?

Many days I didn't go there.
I couldn't.
But machine still in my brain.
Finally I decided to see it again.

Around of earlier there's a large building land.
Trashes, stuff that doesn't work anymore.
My God, there's machine!
No way, no...such a silent, static.

Somebody had broken it or naturally it was broken
I don't know.
Then I understood that I was a miserable romantic.

But that is real that It never says a lie.
As if for a moment
I saw a movement;
Over it a few drops
Does it cry?
My God, can I bring it back with my pray?

After a few minutes rain got speed.
Hopeless I left it.