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i

ПОЭТ ЭМО

marecuad lib? uglymysli alica (tepervracu negodau danicne podhodit)peraonadolznabyla lisit povodyu neebyttam 'p.o.c.' labecs performancein koln tolstyeu tolstogodveri(c'a VIAGRA) (?...)

moi correspondenty adentyu negocac? adeptynovoy religiyivraci(ot masi,masavse dostoinstvy vtret'ey casti)

camoenssporils chaucer'om oni tebedolgi
a abbu gruppu slusali nebabcia zverintsy
hotaby nepolozenoi deli myvragi
maseydostopolucenotvoey mosoncoysvinstva

asam bysporil dolznost'ui nevzrezaa gorl
aprelub prelosamamiuspelbynadziratsa
a lubyby neladilis uspelib tolcosverl
sheis agirl? skurl good fellas
namnadooperatsia














































The Pit of Cologne
(Boris Slutsky)

There were seventy thousand of us, captives, thrown
Into an enormous pit with sheer edges;
Here we’re lying, silent and courageous,
We’re dying from famine in the pit of Cologne.

Over the cliff a vast square stands, crowding slowly;
It extends down toward the brink, where,
Once daily, a horse is led across the square
And is pushed – still alive – into the gully.

So while it drops to the platform of black earth,
And while we split it into bits unequal,
And while, upon horsemeat, we break our teeth,
O tenants of Cologne – shame on you, people!

How is it possible, salt of the earth of Cologne?
Where were you, sober, honest, when – forty feet under –
Greener than a five-copeck copper coin,
In the pit of Cologne, we were howling from hunger?

After pulling together the remainder of our strength,
We scraped a shrill note upon the steep-hanging walls.
A short inscription just over these graves –
An epistle, to the soldier of the Soviet Country.

"Comrade Soldier, stop and pause over us –
Over us, over us, over the white bones.
We were seventy thousand captives, and all of us
Have died for our country, in the pit of Cologne."

When they attempted to turn us into cowards,
And, from the precipice, about bread they were screaming –
And the grammaphones descanted about women,
Our Partymen cried: Not a step, not a step forward!

Read then this dour note over our remains,
So that we may be worthy of posthumous credits –
And if somebody just can’t bear the strain,
The Party allows suicides for the decrepit.

O you, who sought to buy our living souls
With a pot of porridge, with sweet meat and onion,
Look how, having eaten meat from their palms,
Our comrades are ending their lives for the Union!

We dig the earth, we scrape it with our nails,
We wail a shrill wail, in the pit of Cologne –
Though everything will stay the way it was, the way it was:
The porridge is with you, but the souls, with our own.


(avilsapolucitudostovereniastolstoypopoyuhodila)




прочтений: 3
раздел: верлибр
дата публикации: May 15, 2019

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