New Russian Political Poets
Untitled
Your death sport and red caviar
I change at Trubnaya metro and see — fire
I get off at the university and see — fire
I go down the escalator at Chistye Prudy and see — fire
when we fall at Begovaya, at Vykhino, we see — fire, fire, fire
boys and girls their eyes filled with blood
(to hell with ’68)
students in hats with pompons
walking silently next to me
and suddenly they start to shout: “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”
suffocating in dark leggings
the universities flare up
the textbooks of cowardly literature
mixed with lusterless works
flare up along with me
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