Boris Rokanov

Poetry

HYSTERICAL VILLAGE

3.00(2 votes)

Poetry

The slow dying

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SWALLOWS

Translated by: Евелина Кованджийска

4.57   (7 votes)

I.

Swallows blue with a speech, snort

filled with love and skin, and feathers

fall as if someone has left

the strand of tobacco to dry.

They hug me and hug me,

they embrace me and they suffocate me -

oh, you are flattering and you are so smooth as an aging

Jellyfish -

I pour a honey in the throats - they think it's a lead.

The waves are counting nearby,

their epileptic lips emit the froth,

The red on their thin lips grows white.

I drink my strength to fight them -

the law - the glass god is fragile and packaged:

you are one life and no more,

from here you are - from the earth.

The wet skin is drunk by the warmth,

as I drink my strength.

I fall from the sky, and they explain to me,

that I have fallen,

my sound comes somehow far away ,

it rifles my ears,

and looks for colored threads in the hairs.

My heart is even more red,

when the flitted tell me about life.

My feet are still tired,

When the flitted force me to go.

II.

Swallows that sleep

at the point wake up,

mossy flame under the nails.

... your hairs are seven Niagara Falls,

on the face move the feathers.

It will crush you, small tongues,

she comes to tell you how to sing with letters,

she will teach you,

she will give you, she would take your souls.

 

The echo of Romanticism in the heels has shrunk

and in the drop, where millions live

creatures creep.

... I'm not sociable from a small child,

the dust cannot make smoke -

hand gesture,

it threw the other hand,

but it is nonsensical.

Is my nose big to laugh terrible? -

Even in Denmark they do not look at their noses

and they do not want to hear the questions,

no matter how many responses they carry in themselves.

Swallows from their beds represent other

years,

they brought the egg of life, and they hatch it,

The songs for them are like a finger in the mouth.

A voice of bird thunders in my ears,

and I am obliged to hear it,

I can sing with him, but I do not want to believe,

that I have come so far.

Bee and eyes and feather -

this is the swallow that the spring brings me.

It is so distant -

And it falls like a rain,

until it reaches the shoulders - it is a steam.

It is so distant -

The flies jump over it,

when her eyes are only aimed at flies.

It is so distant -

But it is only one obese bird

from old age somewhere it lies

distant.

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