Optron #36 16 июня 2000

Poems - "Blues civil war."

         Blues civil war


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There is a war, burning villages,
And his and other people want something.
And go and how they differ from each other, because they want

                                they are blood.
Sixth of the land is mired in the muck,
And everyone is willing to give his life in combat.
But the soul is not his, but theirs. What does it cost?

Reds left, the white came from.
What has changed? All the same lice
All the same dirt under his nails and drunk

                                    muzzle.
White left, the Reds came
Put to the wall, ordered: "Fire!"
And once again went under the victorious march of chords.

Leave alone, come others.
Stars, straps, steel swords,
Double-headed eagle, the red flags
Crimean wine, smelly jars.
Looking for traitors put to the wall
Hurry, no time to throw into prison,
No time to think who is right - no.
Strong right - here's the answer.
And once again go under the victorious march

                                  chords.

And in the warm southern city of Kerch,
Where no grown fat on corpses rooks,
Officer of good family feeling oppressed

                                    debt.
And drinking red wine, white officer,
After all, right under him he sees the bottom,
And to the bottom of a stone's throw, and break

                                  long.

Some of her rightly want to select,
Some are fighting for something that does not want to lose.
And neither can go, no go, clasping

                                 in the doorway.
Someone thinks that he is not in place,
Someone interferes with the illusion of honor
But all of them, alas, are equal when hanging on

                                  lamps.

Slush and mud, on roadsides - dead bodies,
Beggars to remove the dead coat.
And the poor no less, though dead, all

                                   more;
The smaller fighters, the fights are longer.
The guns, final moans,
Krsnoarmeytsy, marching column.
Fear and despair pulled to the bottom,
Patriots in a rush to throw the country.
But all of them, alas, are equal when hanging on

                                  lamps.


                                 March 1997