Mikhail Lermontov
- My Country, by Peter France
Mijaíl Lérmontov (español)
- La patria, María Francisca de Castro Gil
«This is how they start. At two years / They dash from their nannies into melody's darkness, / They chirp, they whistle, - and words / Appear around year three. This is how they start to understand. / And through the roar of the ignited turbine / It comes to seem that mother isn't mother. ...»
«Us few. Perhaps us three — just — / Blazing and infernal from Donets / Stuck beneath gray racing crusts / Of rain, clouds and Soviets / Of soldiers, poems and debates / About transportation and the arts. We were people. Now we’re epochs. / As time overtakes us in a rush of coaches...»
«The slanting pictures fly in like streaming rain / From the roadway where candles are snuffed, / But on their hooks and walls I’m unable to train them / To fall into line with feet and rhymes. But what if the universe were just — a mask? / Such that in certain latitudes, / Winter caus...»
«You are engrossed in ledgers, / In plans and tragic policies, / You who once sang to the brink / The Flying Dutchman with your verse. A storm swelled at your canvas tent / And roared, intensifying, / Until you, wing d still, descended / At last to walk beside me again. And now you slog...»