Boris Rokanov



4.57(7 votes)


The slow dying

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Translated by: Евелина Кованджийска

3.00   (2 votes)

Hysteria snatched its whole village.

The crowd bifurcates again like a woman

in the morning with tears in from dreams.

The cobbles began to point the way ,

all the pylons sank in the ground.

She brushed her teeth,

before doing so.

The village was like a town, and the burden was a desert.

And God appeared and said,

that he loves among the mighty pressure

of all in love with God,

of these creatures with a hot blood,

of those feelings like autumn taunts:

you love, then you hate,

again you love devotedly

The Earth, a continuer of a legend.

Why does their forgetfulness fascinate me -

to forward them anywhere,

it will be a miracle,

great than Venus,

deeper than a made-up sea.


And I think out my own steps,

play with me and go first -

to think about the bladder

of the enthusiastic grandmothers,

who piss a blood,

they piss a blood.

And the clay tanks

are already leaving

against me.

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