it is strange already two wars
have passed, and a third is on its way
but there is no Tolstoy
neither in body nor in nature
there is his bike
his Remington and phonograph
so many places - living and wet
the same oak or buffet
but emotional depths
were taken away from us
to Rio or to Caracas
into African jungles
an ensign having lived through Afghan
would he ever write something
he is squeezed by life to death
and stoned if not drunk
or I see it in a nightmare -
a lieutenant of special forces
who worked hard in Chechnya
is suffering: Phrase cannot be set
Thought does not walk the string
Translated from Russian by Tatiana Bonch-Osmolovskaya
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem. Thanks to the translation for presenting us such a nice piece of poem.