I ask my questions, and the answer's only hush

I ask my questions, and the answer's only hush. But that's alright, perhaps it's even safer: To decode a cosmic signal, unbelievably complex, No one but me has the strength. Even when you sleep. And outside interference doesn't scare me in the least. Yes, sometimes there knocks inside my brimming chest A coffer, no bigger than a little box, Where Bloody Mary roams through every nook And with her heels wears down the factory bushings by the aortas. Shards of thought won't fit on any shelves. They never hush, they howl like wolves at night. How good there's solid protection on board, Stitched like a BIOS into the body's motherboard. But if you like, the settings can be changed — Inject some twos and threes into the zero-one range. By adding any random digits Not even Enigma could read your complex private cipher. Almost no one — well, there's One up there, I've heard. He writes so it blows your roof clean off, word. So many glorify his genius, But even among the begging hymns There's a belief — that he doesn't exist at all. And that the supply is most likely driven by demand. There are also those for whom the mere existence of a clue Matters more than what the holy faces taught them to do. To each his own — but it doesn't work the other way round. So maybe what is mine needn't be understood all around. Dire consequences for a feeble mind. An overdose of wisdom cracks your dome, you'll find. Insanely creepy, like a session with an exorcist. Like a nasty joke by some failed humorist. And the line's invisible, like the thinnest batiste, But felt — a karate kick you can't resist. No chance, alas, to start again from a clean slate — Turning trans folks back to guys would be easier, mate. They, she and he — is that the Trinity's replacement? Melpomene has already grimly raised her mace. Now her face has soaked up the bitterness of the mask. The boys go back to battle, brows under helmets. A cross around the neck, an icon in the breast pocket. The Old Woman, meeting them, will pass them by — at least once. Perhaps she'll miss the second date as well... When I hit a hundred — I'll remember without sorrow, but with wild horror at the scenes of bloody slaughter. Pinch my brain, brothers, please — make it forget. Fear, like grey hair, roots down to the folds of the brain. For what? For a handful of rubles and hryvnias thrown in vain? Naive mankind believes its might will always reign. Those aren't targets in a shooting gallery — those are living souls. Go to the gyms and hone your fists on the heavy bags. A right hook's surely better than a small-bore's bite. At home with son and daughter, to Stepashka at night, to the Kalykhanka, dozing off — not to screams and cursing. Rest in peace, lads, we remember you... I ask my questions — and the answer's silence, all the way... Inside me a cold war is underway.