Written by: Aleh Barysau

On a market you can see the people run.
The life itself sells here knowing all.
The paleness gets a tan under the Sun.
The smartness is wearing out the sole.

And to and fro here goes a branded flesh,
and risqué tongues suspended scurry about.
It was the want-hag that swept the trash,
With a dashing broom uproar swirls around. 

And cheeky grated balls are looking at my eyes.
A spicy smell is near me. It's marked up.
It's teasing nose of mine – my sense is right
to all the rest of senses on that sharpened.

And motley clothes the fruit-green`s putting on.
For hungry women it's a king of strip-tease.
A kind of honey is brought by a brazen drone.
It is the tawdry world of alien prestige.

Persistent hubbub gets my ears on an` on.
Soon goods are thrown by plenty into mess.
By feet as a pair of compasses a horizon's drawn
to ancient Middle East through wild Wild West.