The pricking needles of cold stars and hoarfrost
hypnotizingly sparkling in the dense crispy air,
a half-sky pearl hallo crowns the dead mercury-liquid Moon;
violent blizzards have been finally superseded by severe frost.
Grasses are peacefully sleeping under the snow whiteness.
Fords, Mercedeses, BMWs, Nissans are moving slowly
groping their way through thick clouds of exhaust mist;
rare chilly passers-by hurrying
towards a hopefully better for existence place.
Here, in the rare air of winter, through the mist
and frost of weariness and apathy,
through the concrete substance of the night wind,
a brightly lit advertising poster screams right into eyes
and minds:"WE WILL WIN! United Russia", and the never
hibernating on his three-color way grizzly-bear
looks as ever strong, resolute and satisfied.
There is no bum soaker, no thief, no whore
under the dead-festive-rosy light of the street lamps.
No single crow or dog or jackdaw in the dead space
of eternal frost. All they have gone.
In winter, conscience seems to be a too abstract matter.
The colored scraps are much more essential.
Nov 25, 2011
a constructive critique is welcome
Copyright © Pavel Nichkov