На Сашо Вутимски

                                                Бях сценаристка на тв филм за него

                                                със заглавието: "По дирите на един

                                                бездомник", и го чувствам близък,
                                                както го чувстват и много от младите

                                                                    хора сега.

                                       Градът.

                                              Този град.

                                       Дом

                                               на мечтите ни.

                                       Градът -

                                                маскарад.

                                         С бездомните

                                                кучета.

                                           С бездомни

                                                 деца.

                                           С фалшиви

                                                 слънца

                                          и без светлина.

                                           Тук!

                                                  Някой!

                                          Някога!

                                                   Пак го боли.

                                          Може би -

                                                    на старата

                                          спирка опушена -

                                                    още чака

                                           онова

                                                    Синьо момче

                                           или пък - не?

                                                    То е измислица.

                                            Или го има?

                                                     Дали?

                                              Днес ми

                                                    се стори дори,

                                            че един

                                                    познат глас

                                             кънти,

                                                    както твоят

                                             преди:

                                           - Полиция! Полиция!

                                           Спасете ме от мойте

                                                     спомени!

                                    * Александър Вутимски умира двадесет и четири

                                       годишен от туберкулоза!