“A Tragicomic Read”
(translated from a Russian poem by Alexander Bashlachev)
The clock has stopped at one o’clock.
To lie in bed, it is so boring!
Too bad that alcohol that’s pouring
Can’t save us from this dead old lock.
The springs of couch but squealing bleed,
The scratching sound of mice is steady…
Why don’t we both wake up and then get ready
To write a tragicomic read?
Why don’t we make a plot anew,
Which will allow for our existence,
In which, engaged in fun on every distance,
We’d spend at least a year or two.
Much to the envy of the rest,
I’ll love you with breathtaking passion,
When my damn running nose goes out of fashion,
As well as boredom and the pests.
It shall be on the oceans’ shores
That we will find a bay of ours,
And we won’t have to, for eternal hours,
Consider money and the chores.
No need to think of guilt and wine,
Nor gather wood to feed the furnace.
Forget of future fighting, lest they’ll spurn us:
Bears, lions – friends of yours and mine.
No borders cross the magic land,
And we shall never drop our feathers.
What’s more to us than truths’ dark, nasty weathers?
A tricky read that lends a hand!
And thus, we’re writing: to approach
Most inconceivable of marvels!
While up the pile of dirty towels
Is crawling quite a whiskered roach.
by D. Rudoy – 2012
