DUST Where does it dwell, ubiquitous, but driven away everywhere from the lips of glass, on which 'the bound of loneliness' is hovering fourmouthly? In this case with age comes the audacity of nonchalance. Everyone has their own temper, their own smoke of the settlement in the south above the palmate luminaire of tanned skin, above the dexterity of dusky, loose hands receding into the faraway whiteness, into its ash. It is never in vain. In the valley, where the parting of semideserts lies, there's much less earth than sky, Tengrim. The rill is throbbing above the eyebrows, the size of a rice crib. To trudge somewhere to see the same things as here. Шамшад Абдуллаев. Перевод с русского Максима Дрёмова.