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Shane Roller Mar 24
Dostoevsky dreams
And Pushkin lines
And rhymes...
Like Bolshevik bullets
Tear into me
Hot sleep!

Dead Tsars and Anastasia
Mean nothing to me
But I miss them

Aristocratic nonsense
But tiaras are pretty
With diamonds shining
In a Russian night

As kulaks die
The diamonds glitter
A worthy reminder
Of a beautiful time

When debutantes danced
And the little Tsarina

Could dream in peace
Lawrence Hall Mar 15
On this dark day, this evil day, this day
In a railway carriage on a branch line
Three hundred years of civilization
And millions of lives, three generations
Were signed away with a few penned words
In a railway carriage on a branch line
On this dark day, this evil day, this day

(2 March 1917 O.S.)
From several years ago, but...
Gandy Lamb Feb 27
░░░░░░░░( •̪●)░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░
░░░░░░███████ ]▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▃░░░▃░░░░ ▃░░

░░░░░░███████ ]▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▃
...........███ ]▄▄▄▄▄▃

__­_( •̪●)
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oh hell ya boys we gonna **** some russians today
not if i have anything to say about that
donald trump will end you all!!
R Dickson Nov 2018
Guns are all now silent,
The killings all been done,
The boys are coming home,
The war’s ended, but not for some,

The war to end all wars ended,
One hundred years ago,
The killings started over again,
No poppies in the meadow,

Civil war in Yemen,
The Saudis and Iran,
Russia starts an arms race,
Trump’s wall building plan,

Caravan from Honduras,
Fleeing death and repulsion,
Troops at the Mexican border,
With guns and no discussion,

Mothers fears and lovers tears,
Of family they’ll never see again,
Shootings at schools and bars,
Talk of gun control all in vain.
Helsinki, (or Helsingfors to the Swedes,
and Khelsinki to the Russians),
is a city completed, calm in its prosperity.
To the first impression: a Playmobil set,
or an architect’s computer generation.
Everything costs Euros, and everyone is balanced.

At a barbecue that night,
Kata, a Finnish friend of a friend of a friend,
said “a Russian is still a Russian,
even if he’s fried in butter,”
and we laughed together.

The next morning, on the train Sibelius,
we sped through the crisp and ordered Finnish countryside,
and I try to imagine Russian troops,
in WWII, marching en masse down the roads,
across the fields.

It’s impossible to picture –
maybe for a reason.
The mind lives in dim refusal,
of all such things calamitous.

Coming into Russia, the train slows, and stops.
Russian immigration agents coldly check our passports.
More agents come on board, customs this time,
and check again, then search my bag.

We cross the border,
and enter vast and stoic Russia.
Everything’s run down and crumbling.
The signs are in Cyrillic.
A lost soul wanders on a dirt road.
The train slows, creaking on the dry iron.
Then it stops completely.
The afternoon sun warms the car,
streaming between the northern pines.
A young woman talks quietly on her phone in Russian,
then hangs up, and
and no one else speaks at all.

Russia is silent
with the burden of history.

We who visit can observe,
but never really know.
Maxim Keyfman Jun 2018
I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain
I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain

Across a Novorossiysk
Across a Moscow
Across a Novossibirsk
Across a Russia

I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain
Today was sunny day
A now rain

A now rain
A now rain

I'm on my way          
I'm walk in rain
I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain

Across a Novorossiysk
Across a Moscow    
Across a Novossibirsk    
Across a Russia

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