The bridges are all burned, the fords are deepened, Itís so congested, only skulls around, The exits and the entrances are séaled off, The only way thatís left - to follow crowds. And like those mares accustomed to the collar, On practice showing that our world is small, The crowd now treads along the vicious circle, And itís quite large, and benchmarks are all lost. The palette drips exposed to ample rainfall, And gallops burst into a polonaise, No odors, colors, semitones or tempos, And oxygen is gone without a trace. And no oneís lunacy or inspiration Can interrupt this all-consuming dance. Is not this everlasting circulation The very way of limitless advance?
© Kirill Tolmachev. Translation, 2022