Sleeping railroad conductor - what do you get to see ?
The sound of jarring empty glasses on a table
at compartment's window as a station flies fast by -
all this in dark and lasting night that mingles
with some policeman who is smoking,
and his ash he tries
to bury in snow desert,
and sees its depth that's endless...
it's there we get to see so clearly
our present world - the drunk and brainless stud
in shame comes out before Lord's appearing:
world's head goes low, and its eyes are shut...
When will i finally get to see Her ?
All joyous... without grime...
Would all my writings clearly come out
on piece of paper - all of that
i've chunked and swollowed in my head
as if it were a trash can
when i believed all those jokes i said,
and her soundless beauty ?
When minutes turn to lengthy hands of death that's inevitable ?
How do we come to measure time ?
What games to play with charitable
winds and clouds, when we're alone as winter nears by ?
What may my Motherland speak to me ?
as pieces float across the screen
of love that's clearly frozen,
as February's snow storm breeds
in dark and empty pupil's chosen
starlight expanding power-saw bench...
and rusted water all gone bad in faucet
and similarly - in some narc's syrynge
who's yawning as he wakes in bathroom closet
and looks out into endless fields...
What poor old granny may explain us ?
by railroad platform as she stands alone
with her village-style wrapping filled with boiled potatoes
she's boiled by evil louts pouring devastation stones
she follows tiredly the trains with eyes
filled with endless heartaches and life's labour
her hands are loyal to forgiveness and gentile
- Good sons, you all can get food here... -
she can hardly speak, so hard to hear -
- Who wants to eat, dear children, please ?!
Oh my...
What may these cities tell me ?
garages, multi-storeys, someone's holes
supported storages and graffiti with souls
and endless concrete fences that forego
unpositive, disloyal atmosphere
of all week days, that gets to see the trains
it cannot tolerate but still gets near...
These dirty suburbs may well be called "peace"
which likely no one notices or cares for
guess that's why it's so difficult to believe that this "release"
has been produced by many generations' bloody labour
But... where you find a third one, there's two more :
maternal ward just like a local church - all lit with same candle.
Where all those people head to ? ... What attracts
us all in endless far-off panoramas ?
What is it in these suicidal lamas
where every gyst and feeling has its score ?
where all things have finale, except trifles,
which our memory invariably prefers,
and i feel like forgiving young milksops
who shouted into space :
"NO ONE ENSLAVE US!"
(c) Balagutin A.I.