Their teacher had advised them not to read Tolstoy novels, because they were very long and would easily confuse the clear ideas which they had learned from reading critical studies of him. - Alexander Solzhenitsyn<

TO  ALL AND  EVERYTHING
 
No.
It can't be.
No!
You too, beloved?
Why? What for?
Darling, look -
I came,
I brought flowers,
but, but... I never took
silver spoons from your drawer!

Ashen-faced,
I staggered down five flights of stairs.
The  street eddied round me. Blasts. Blares.
Tires screeched.
It was gusty.
The wind stung my cheeks.
Horn mounted horn lustfully.

Above  the capital's madness
I raised my face,
stern as the faces of ancient icons.
Sorrow-rent,
on your body as on a death-bed, its days
my heart ended.

You did not sully your hands with brute murder.
Instead,
you let drop calmly:
"He's in bed.
There's fruit and wine
On the bedstand's palm."

Love!
You  only existed in my inflamed brain.
Enough!
Stop this foolish comedy
and take notice:
I'm ripping off
my  toy armour,
I,
the greatest of all Don Quixotes!

Remember?
Weighed  down by the cross,
Christ stopped for a moment,
weary.
Watching him, the mob
yelled, jeering:
"Get movin', you clod!"

That's right!
Be spiteful.
Spit upon him who begs for a rest
on his day of days,
harry and curse him.
To the army  of zealots, doomed to do good,
man shows no mercy!

That does it!

I swear by my pagan strength -
gimme a girl,
young,
eye-filling,
and  I won't waste my  feelings on her.
I'll rape her
and  spear her heart with a gibe
willingly.

An  eye for an eye!

A  thousand times over reap of revenge the crops'
Never  stop!
Petrify, stun,
howl into every ear:
"The  earth is a convict, hear,
his head half shaved by the sun!"

An eye for an eye!

Kill me,
bury me  -
I'll dig myself out,
the knives of my teeth by stone - no wonder!-
made  sharper,
A snarling dog, under
the plank-beds of barracks I'll crawl,
sneaking out to bite feet that smell
of sweat and of market stalls!

You'll leap from bed in the night's early hours.
"Moo!"  I'll roar.
Over  my neck,
a yoke-savaged sore,
tornados of flies
will rise.
I'm a white bull over the earth towering!

Into an elk I'll turn,
my horns-branches entangled  in wires,
my eyes red with blood.
Above the world,
a beast brought to bay,
I'll stand tirelessly.

Man  can't escape!
Filthy and humble,
a prayer mumbling,
on cold stone he lies.
What  I'll do is paint
on the royal gates,
over God's own
the face of Razin.

Dry  up, rivers, stop him from quenching his thirst! Scorn him!
Don't waste your  rays, sun! Glare!
Let thousands of my disciples be born
to trumpet anathemas on the squares!
And when at last there comes,
stepping onto the peaks of the ages,
chillingly,
the last of their days,
in the black souls of anarchists and killers
I, a gory vision, will blaze!

It's dawning,
The sky's mouth stretches out more and more,
it drinks up the night
sip by sip, thirstily.
The windows send off a glow.
Through the panes heat pours.
The sun, viscous, streams down onto the sleeping city.

O sacred vengeance!
Lead  me  again
above the dust without
and up  the steps of my poetic lines.
This heart of mine,
full to the brim,
in a confession
I will pour out.

Men  of the future!
Who  are you?
I must know. Please!
Here am  I,
all bruises and aches,
pain-scorched...
To you  of my great soul I bequeath
the orchard.

1916

[English] [Russian TRANS | KOI8 | ALT | WIN | MAC | ISO5]
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Akhmatova A.A.
Annensky I.F.
Aseev N.N.
Bagritsky E.G.
Balmont K.D.
Belyi A.
Blok A.A.
Brysov V.Y.
Bunin I.A.
Cherny S..
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Gippius Z.N.
Gorodesky S.M.
Gumilev N.S..
Ivanov G.V.
Ivanov V.I.
Khodasevich V.F.
Krandievskaya-Tolstaya N.V.
Mandelshtam O.A.
Mayakovsky V.V.
Merezkovsky D.S.
Pasternak B.L.
Severynin I.
Sologub F.
Tsvetaeva M.I.
Voloshin M.A.
Zenkevich M.A.

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