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Vyas Nov 9
It's been a long way, in frost and heat.
We've seen it all and made through it.
We'd gobble snow with birch-tree mess
And grew as high as tower bells.

When crying, we spared no salt.
When feasting - sugar glaze.
Bell-ringers, with their callous hold,
Would tear up nerves of copper amps.

But times are changing really fast,
Domes are short on golden plates.
Bell-ringers loaf about,
And bells've been smashed into cracks.

And here we go, we dance around
We hide like rabbits in our land.
And if bells don't wanna sound,
Then it's time for jingle bells.

Heart will ring behind the ribs,
Ravens, shoo! To the four winds fly!
Hey! Get ready steeds!
Let's ride off into sunrise!

But horses 've been short on shoes,
No wheels 've been oiled up.
Whip is gone, saddles' hooked,
And all knots've been long untied.

In the rain, all roads' like rainbows,
Trouble's brewing, it's no fun.
But the harness is bell-spangled,
So, c'mon, let's have a run!

We'll clatter, snap and whistle!
It'll get to the bones, down to core!
Hey, old chaps, have a listen
Of Russian bells' wrathful ****!

We've long been chewing swears with prayers.
We've been kenneling with lights cut off.
We drink in liters, sleep daylong,
We've even given up on songs.

We've tarried long and got by filthy,
And so we've come to look alike.
But in the rain, we sure will differ,
And most will come as honest, kind.

Let papa Tsar-Bell is no more!
We've brought guitars in its stead.
Since big-beat, blues, and rock'n'roll
Spellbound us right away.

Our chests' abuzz with electricity,
Hats to snow, let's go kick ***!
Rock'n'roll' a lovely heathenry...
I do love
This time of jingle bells.
Alexander Bashlachev
Vyas May 19
~ Marina Tsvetaeva ~


You shudder – and a mountain' off
Of the mind, and the soul' – up.
Oh, cliffs of my grief, don't you scoff
At my mountain chant.

This black hole will yawn unsealed
My cliffy grief, let me sing
At the mountaintop.


That mountain was like a recruit's
***** dominating the battlefield.
That mountain wouldn't excuse
Kissing outside of the sacrament.

That mountain wished to insert
An ocean into the auricle.
With a sudden "hurray!", it would burst,
All belligerent and inexorable.

That mountain was like a roar
Of thunder. One should be wary of Titans!
At the mountain base, you saw
The very last of its houses.

That giant was larger than life!
For life, God charges awfully!
Cliffs of the grief started high
In the mountain. A town was belòw it.


Parnassus or Sinai would put
This barrack-like, ordinary
Hillock to shame – Dress! Shoot!
Why did then this octobery,
Rather than mayish, sight
Seem to me a delight?


Once too meek and obtainable,
Heaven, expose your barbs!
The mountain came assailing
With obstacles of its scarps.

As if the grip of Leviathan
Clutching the skirt of my dress,
Was shrubbery of the mountain,
It rustled along: "You won't pass!"

Heaven was nowise flattering,
It was one gale of a draft!
The mountain pulled us and flàttened us,
It threw its weight right and left.

We forged on and dumbfounded
That giant with our assault.
How could this happen? We found the
Saint as though at fault...


Granate seed of Persephone,
You flash when frosts brace the land...
I will hardly stop remembering
Our mouths poised to blend.

That seed' Persephone's tragedy!
I remember your lips set ajar
And your eyelashes shooting jaggedly,
And the golden prong of the star...


Not an illusion or fantasy
Is passion, and far from a bluff
It is! If only we came to here
To be just lowlifes of love!

Oh, if only we grappled with
Just that, a hillock, a ****.
(They say, it's the longing for precipice
That brings to the mountaintop).

These brown tangles of heathery,
These languishing pines and moss...
Delirious, delectable heathenry!
     – Here, take me now! All yours...

Alas! Quiet graces of family
And prattling of young' still above...
For on this earth we are meant to be
Celestials, not lowlifes, of love!


The mountain mourned (it is lime
With what mountains normally mourn).
It bitterly mourned the sublime
Tenderness of our ethereal morns.

The mountain mourned our friendship:
The unshakeable kinship of lips.
Also, it passingly mentioned
The requital for tears, not deeds.

The mountain spoke of this life
Belittlingly, as of a flea market of hearts.
It shed streams of snowy lime
Over Hagar's exile and her child's.

"This game is a demon's scheming,
It's nonentity, nonsense, mirage",
The mountain said. We were quietly heeding
Orations of the mountainous judge.


The mountain mourned that boiling ruby
Blood would turn, after all, into mud.
Also, the mountain said that it wouldn't
Allow our being apart.

The mountain mourned that every of Romes
Would rhyme in the end with "rammed".
The mountain said that we were to home
With others (I don't envy them).

The mountain mourned a terrible oath,
Which is too late to loathe. It said
Of the Gordian knot as overmuch old,
The one between passion and debt.

The mountain mourned, it felt sorry
For us. Later! When, above eyes,
There'll be no "memento", neither "mori",
Just mare. Tomorrow, we'll realize.

A sound... as if somebody's, like, crying,
Close by (you also heard?).
The mountain mourned our separate climbing
Down, through mounts of dirt,

Into life, of which everyone knows:
A marketplace – barrack – "no, please".
Also, the mountain said that all poems
Of mountains – are written – like this.


That mountain was like the ****
Of Atlas, a groaning Titan.
That mountain is going to pump
The pride of our town wherе

We, passionate, go on the spree
Headlong, resisting nothingness!
Alongside the frowning steep
And the dozen evangelists,

You shall honor my somber cave!
(Been there, waves were skipping in!)
You remember last moves of the game
At the township's periphery?

That mountain was, like, worlds!
Gods treat their images vengefully!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The grief has cliffed from the words
Of the mountain. It weighs on me gravestonely.


Years will pass, and the mountainous
**** will be replaced with a slab.
Its summit will host summerhouses
And cornfields will claim its lap.

They say that the air is frèsh on the
Skirts, and life there isn't as hard.
They will just go on pàtchworking,
Reworking its rocky facàde.

You’ll hungrily spoon all my pàsses and
Fork over all my ravines!
For people are needful of houses
And happiness to be therein,

Happiness, love with no coinage
Or putting oneself on the rack!
You’re a woman! So stòmach this!
(There was happiness, on looking back,

With him) Love' to be fancy-free,
With no separation or knife.
The place wherein we lived happily –
Now ruins – will see a new life

Of men and women. Àll they will
Do in that blissful air is sin.
Tradesters at grass will be chowing
Their riches and, in-between,

Scheming new moves, new lèvels such
That houses be choke-full.
For people, at least some fellows,
Want storks atop roofs as a rule.


The weight of those foundations
Will not obscure the play.
Good at memorization,
Unlike those going astray,

The mountain will bide. Cottagers
Will fail to patch over clefts
And see: not a household hurst it is –
A crater ready to blast.

Grapevines can't chain Vesuvius,
The giant will rip apart yarn.
Madness of lips alone would fuse
Rock into lava. Your barns,

Together with cornfields and households,
Will lavishly taste its wrath.
Your daughters will turn into harlots and
Sons will be poets and stuff.

Daughter, you raise a bàstard slip!
Son, she-gipsies' all yours!
Let no place for your vices be
On my body, you, fleshly-borns!

Harder than granite and firmer than
The dying man's oath is this:
Let you not taste, unworthy ones,
My mountainly, heavenly bliss.

Lo! The unforeseen hour
Will strike, for your brood to see
How mountainous is the mountain,
How deadly – the third deadly sin!
Vyas Apr 23
~ Sergei Esenin ~

Bell, once woken up,
Has also roused the field,
To the fair sun,
The drowsy earth has grinned.

The ringing' soaring high
Toward the heaven's roof,
Its crispy sounds chime
In the forest, too.

The milky moon' eclipsed
By the river's bend,
Waves, all swift and brisk,
Are softly kissing banks.

The quiet valley warms
Shaking off the sleep,
And the chiming song's
Dying far afield...
Vyas Mar 18
~ Daniil Andreev ~

The predawn breeze caresses eternally sacred stones.
The muezzin raises his hands, ready to chant the adhan
Over the somber Galilee, where time quietly flows
Through Cana's and Bethlehem's ashes. He calls: «Allah-il-Allah».

As though a rose mirage, Damascus groves and temples
Will shimmer. Chador-clad women are beading gems, never in rush.
The breeze blows now and then, and waves gently bring their favors;
The summoning trumpets of Angel, Lion, and Eagle are hushed.

Yet, fishing nets' ever wistful, just as when the Lamb was slain.
The crusaders' coffins are sleeping, scenting of cedar and myrrh.
And motley throngs will be praying time and time again,
Scurrying to His Sepulcher from all over the earth.
Vyas Mar 18
~ Valery Lipnevich ~

along the perch of reality,
we, ordinary,
walk from the tale of yesterday
into the tale of tomorrow

today –
is the only thing
we cannot be rid of

kisses rustle like leaves
and hide us like trees

along the slender perch of the summer night,
the sunrise is walking
like a boy with fishing rods,
crossing the murmuring river,
muffled by the haze
Vyas May 2020
~ Vladimir Burich ~

In a coverall and mask,
with a monitor in hand,
I am going
to interview
the land.

Tell me,
what happened,
what got you poisoned?

Terminally ill,
make your last wish.

You don’t recognize me.
To you, I look like a vermin.

I don’t recognize you:
you've got covered
with ulcers
of human doings
Vyas May 2020
~ Vladimir Burich ~

This one is catching Fortune,
zigzagging on his car,
surrounding it with phone calls,
pressing it,
so as to squeeze it
into the narrow passage
of his mouth,
such that it touches
his body,
flows over his body.

That one
kind of differently,
meat – for his beast;
a heavy-built house with shutters – for his fears;
a fresh magazine with his photo – for his vanity;
a big-eyed son – for his paternity instinct.  

having been freed,
he could stand in the universal Hyde Park
and scream
with his buttoned lips
Vyas May 2020
~ Alexander Blok ~

Let Me stay at heights most lofty,
I am spotless, I am complete.
The shore is dark and looks deserted
Whilst ships are furrowing the sea.

Sometimes, a passing sail is close,
It sparks a dream in Me at once.
And in the endless vast, behold
My soul's extravagance.

It feels so solitary, stilly,
And I am at the steering wheel,
And I am crooning - don't you hear it? -
Your dream, my beloved keel.

Trust your sail to a tempest
Blowing strangers' fate, not yours:
And ofttimes, in My tranquil azure,
I'll mourn your twists and turns.
Vyas May 2020
~ Vladimir Burich ~

Where to keep the treasure?
Above the bed,
in full view of a casual partner?
Under the tomb
desecrated with **** swastikas?
Inside the book
that would be found and opened,
with his pure hands,
by a masturbator?
In the soul,
right beside cold shots?
where to keep the treasure?
You just grip it
and walk
without opening the fist
Vyas May 2020
~ Vladimir Burich ~

It's amazing
how many faces he changes
during the day:
a mime
in the froth of morning wash;
a bird
on the porcelain perch
atop sewerage network;
a god
over a fresh newspaper;
a worm
by the bulletin board;
a dog
on the leash
of the lunch break.

In the evening he goes to sleep,
closes his eyes
as if entering
into the dark hall
of a movie theatre.
he sees himself
as a star
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