‘She was kind, she washed, she robbed…’ (Bakhyt Kenzheev)

She was kind, she washed, she robbed–he died early and was late to rise again.
I would be glad to make a fair copy of the life–but had no time to spare then.

To leaf to the end of the nocturnal textbook by the lights on the ways between
stars, to cure finally fear of time–if not with prayer, then morphine.

So the only man is pondering, stunned by world-wide woe
weakened, but all the same combative, dissimilar, but alive even so.

To all it will be rendered with one measure. And when at the computer he stays
until morning, retouching the grey photographs of the grey days

–there may be petrol and Lethe frozen over, the clouds may hang low in the skies,
only let the photo, that fragile ex voto, fill with tears that man’s eyes.


“Обласкала, омыла, ограбила — рано умер и поздно воскрес.
Рад бы жизнь переписывать набело — только времени стало в обрез.

Долистать бы ночное пособие по огням на межзвездных путях,
залечить, наконец, хронофобию — не молитвой, так морфием”. Так

человек размышляет единственный, оглушенный бедой мировой,
ослабевший, а все же воинственный, непохожий, но просто живой.

Всем воздастся единою мерою. И когда за компьютером он
до утра ретуширует серые фотографии серых времен —

пусть бензин и промерзшая Лета, пусть облака над отчизной низки —
только б светопись, ломкая летопись, заливала слезами зрачки.

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