Простые линии. Стихи

I will reach the aim. I'm mad
coming through the snow veil,
slow as a lazy snail,
but still going ahead.

I will reach without doubt
and without any rail,
tardy like the Russian mail,
brave as gay boys coming out.

But I have a little problem,
tiny as the pint of ale,
unimportant on my scale...
I should choose the aim at first.