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Poems 1
Handwritten at the top of the page: Times of Trouble, 92
it’s strange to listen to the sounds of the night as you drift off to sleep.
balancing at the edge of vague and nebulous reality brings out a keenness of the senses.
there’s rustling, rasping, gasping, something scattering inside the walls,
water singing in the drainage pipes, and endless creaking.
presumably, these are the fading echoes of everything that happened during the day, of your inner sounds and noises.
the thing with reality is that it passes without a trace, especially when every trace of it is gone.
/28 November, night/
it’s strange to listen to the sounds of the night as you drift off to sleep.
balancing at the edge of vague and nebulous reality brings out a keenness of the senses.
there’s rustling, rasping, gasping, something scattering inside the walls,
water singing in the drainage pipes, and endless creaking.
presumably, these are the fading echoes of everything that happened during the day, of your inner sounds and noises.
the thing with reality is that it passes without a trace, especially when every trace of it is gone.
/28 November, night/
/year 1981/
And it was night,
and stars whispered words of tenderness,
and stars flowed over into dreams.
the upper sphere enveloped
and swaddled everyone;
whispers seeped into the dreams of those sleeping,
they poured into the wide-opened eyes of the believers,
the lips of those still waiting silently asked questions
and stars chimed gently in response,
the sphere of Love and Tenderness,
stars flowed over into dreams and whispered,
and it was night.
_______________
End of November /”Four Seasons—Winter”
And then a curtain fell over the city,
except the curtain was white,
it fell over a city that was blacker-than-black.
a man,
stood alone,
on a black roof,
steadfastly looking up, not lowering his eyes.
the whiteness oppressed him and pierced his eyes,
it made him nauseous, but the snow didn’t cover the black.
they bustled—they tussled,
and shreds of white were strewn
over dark attics and alleys,
over dirty streets and courtyards,
all of it.
once everything was tossed together, turned upside down,
and poured into deep wells,
a snowy iceberg appeared over the city,
and a black rock—over the man on the roof.
And it was night,
and stars whispered words of tenderness,
and stars flowed over into dreams.
the upper sphere enveloped
and swaddled everyone;
whispers seeped into the dreams of those sleeping,
they poured into the wide-opened eyes of the believers,
the lips of those still waiting silently asked questions
and stars chimed gently in response,
the sphere of Love and Tenderness,
stars flowed over into dreams and whispered,
and it was night.
_______________
End of November /”Four Seasons—Winter”
And then a curtain fell over the city,
except the curtain was white,
it fell over a city that was blacker-than-black.
a man,
stood alone,
on a black roof,
steadfastly looking up, not lowering his eyes.
the whiteness oppressed him and pierced his eyes,
it made him nauseous, but the snow didn’t cover the black.
they bustled—they tussled,
and shreds of white were strewn
over dark attics and alleys,
over dirty streets and courtyards,
all of it.
once everything was tossed together, turned upside down,
and poured into deep wells,
a snowy iceberg appeared over the city,
and a black rock—over the man on the roof.
From the unprinted, /1981/
you, i, they—We,
all are together, all—so different,
but taken apart—when it’s night,
when it rains at night, when drops fall on your face—
tell me that I’m not you, and he’s not i.
i remember how ages ago a madman screamed: we are one family!
i am a family?!
who feels like playing mommies and daughters?
count me out. i'm no family,
i am you, and he is i.
There is no quiet place here,
there’s singing, moaning, banging, screaming.
all the people are wearing costumes,
with fake moustaches and beards,
They won't drown in “the storm”.
you, i, they—We,
all are together, all—so different,
but taken apart—when it’s night,
when it rains at night, when drops fall on your face—
tell me that I’m not you, and he’s not i.
i remember how ages ago a madman screamed: we are one family!
i am a family?!
who feels like playing mommies and daughters?
count me out. i'm no family,
i am you, and he is i.
There is no quiet place here,
there’s singing, moaning, banging, screaming.
all the people are wearing costumes,
with fake moustaches and beards,
They won't drown in “the storm”.
Frend
He, who’s forgotten what the cold feels like,
he, who has wanted to look at the clouds from above,
he, who has climbed a mountain just to watch a sunrise,
he, who couldn’t bring himself to pluck a flower,
he, who loves the stars and the Sun,
he, who takes nighttime dips in the moonlight,
he, who often looks intently at the sky—
he is my frend.
/Four Seasons/ SUMMER—JULY.
Heat of july, unhurried, lazy clouds,
the sky is blue, the sun shines bright,
The warm breeze is playing with the flower petals,
they beckon us to join their fun.
A road meanders through the hills,
we kick up dust, and up ahead,
there is a river
beneath the cupola of sunshine.
The lily-of-the-valley is a springtime flower,
intended for whoever spots the first beam
of the sun,
but not the wintry sun--
the blazing, sunny, scorching summer sun.
The summer sun casts its
first ray of warmth only when spring arrives.
Catch it,
and the lily-of-the-valley is yours.
And once again, we press forward
Forward along the road that spreads before us,
just like a thousand years ago,
like last year--we march ahead,
to rip to shreds the ragged banner of time.
We press forward, where nobody expects us.
We march.
Where do our feet take us?—Forward!
A downer is the beginning of a dream, its first steps
Baby, go through the world in a downer,
Don’t worry about scraping your knees, like when you were little.
He, who’s forgotten what the cold feels like,
he, who has wanted to look at the clouds from above,
he, who has climbed a mountain just to watch a sunrise,
he, who couldn’t bring himself to pluck a flower,
he, who loves the stars and the Sun,
he, who takes nighttime dips in the moonlight,
he, who often looks intently at the sky—
he is my frend.
/Four Seasons/ SUMMER—JULY.
Heat of july, unhurried, lazy clouds,
the sky is blue, the sun shines bright,
The warm breeze is playing with the flower petals,
they beckon us to join their fun.
A road meanders through the hills,
we kick up dust, and up ahead,
there is a river
beneath the cupola of sunshine.
The lily-of-the-valley is a springtime flower,
intended for whoever spots the first beam
of the sun,
but not the wintry sun--
the blazing, sunny, scorching summer sun.
The summer sun casts its
first ray of warmth only when spring arrives.
Catch it,
and the lily-of-the-valley is yours.
And once again, we press forward
Forward along the road that spreads before us,
just like a thousand years ago,
like last year--we march ahead,
to rip to shreds the ragged banner of time.
We press forward, where nobody expects us.
We march.
Where do our feet take us?—Forward!
A downer is the beginning of a dream, its first steps
Baby, go through the world in a downer,
Don’t worry about scraping your knees, like when you were little.
Give the moon one final chance--
on this summer night, so warm and dark
when i might be high from doing crank—
let it try to cast a spell on me.
The star-studded sky
hangs overhead, enormous,
splintering into a prickly black abyss.
let it try to cast a spell on me.
Give the moon one final chance.
_____________________________________________________________
Yes, we are we,
the grass whispers to us on summer days,
we are we,
we want to play with the sun’s fiery blaze,
we are we,
we’ll take Pink Floyd with us and the wind, too.
we are we,
we will make it to the dark side of the moon.
we are we,
we want our dreams to be vivid and bright,
we are we,
the stars—night’s lamplights—whisper to us,
yes, we are we.
___________________________________________________________________
The lemon is greenish, no larger than an elephant’s eye,
the moon hangs by a silver thread in the sky,
it hangs very quietly, immobile, and ready to flee,
it will jump over the horizon with one shout from me,
i’ll close my eyes and go to sleep.
______________________________________________________________________
We come from Nowhere and head to Noplace,
you will never get to hear us say “yes.”
In the morning, still sleepy, i go on a hunt,
no, i don’t crawl around the muddy swamp,
i don’t pack gunpowder and mortar,
i am no murderer.
on this summer night, so warm and dark
when i might be high from doing crank—
let it try to cast a spell on me.
The star-studded sky
hangs overhead, enormous,
splintering into a prickly black abyss.
let it try to cast a spell on me.
Give the moon one final chance.
_____________________________________________________________
Yes, we are we,
the grass whispers to us on summer days,
we are we,
we want to play with the sun’s fiery blaze,
we are we,
we’ll take Pink Floyd with us and the wind, too.
we are we,
we will make it to the dark side of the moon.
we are we,
we want our dreams to be vivid and bright,
we are we,
the stars—night’s lamplights—whisper to us,
yes, we are we.
___________________________________________________________________
The lemon is greenish, no larger than an elephant’s eye,
the moon hangs by a silver thread in the sky,
it hangs very quietly, immobile, and ready to flee,
it will jump over the horizon with one shout from me,
i’ll close my eyes and go to sleep.
______________________________________________________________________
We come from Nowhere and head to Noplace,
you will never get to hear us say “yes.”
In the morning, still sleepy, i go on a hunt,
no, i don’t crawl around the muddy swamp,
i don’t pack gunpowder and mortar,
i am no murderer.
I see that the sky is covered in thorns
clinging to clouds in throngs
the sun can’t break through their army
the sun is not destined to reach me.
let the chinese-japanese come
flattening the globe of the earth underfoot,
i’m not here, i don’t care, let me be.
All the leaves, those pretty leaves, have died,
they smolder and burn, crumpled and dry,
the trees stand barren and naked,
they have nothing to say to the wind,
they don’t know: will spring ever come? who will see it? who?
they don’t know. they’ve been waiting for spring for so long.
let me be, I am not here, I don’t care.
A wary silence has fallen,
a man steps into the yellow circle,
he looks around, searching for me with his eyes,
i’m hiding, i’ve vanished, i don’t need you,
but he calls, he asks, he wants to take me with him,
as if he doesn’t know my answer:
i don’t care, let me be, i’m not here.
“The 20th Century is Born in a Building Stairwell”
A freezing stairwell, the dead of night,
a piercing wind is howling outside,
i want to lie down, but this stone is no summer grass,
my feet are numb, my eyes are frozen, and my soul is ice.
clinging to clouds in throngs
the sun can’t break through their army
the sun is not destined to reach me.
let the chinese-japanese come
flattening the globe of the earth underfoot,
i’m not here, i don’t care, let me be.
All the leaves, those pretty leaves, have died,
they smolder and burn, crumpled and dry,
the trees stand barren and naked,
they have nothing to say to the wind,
they don’t know: will spring ever come? who will see it? who?
they don’t know. they’ve been waiting for spring for so long.
let me be, I am not here, I don’t care.
A wary silence has fallen,
a man steps into the yellow circle,
he looks around, searching for me with his eyes,
i’m hiding, i’ve vanished, i don’t need you,
but he calls, he asks, he wants to take me with him,
as if he doesn’t know my answer:
i don’t care, let me be, i’m not here.
“The 20th Century is Born in a Building Stairwell”
A freezing stairwell, the dead of night,
a piercing wind is howling outside,
i want to lie down, but this stone is no summer grass,
my feet are numb, my eyes are frozen, and my soul is ice.
Translator’s note
The poem is quite unusual in its use of graphic imagery of violence, gore and death. It emulates the language of old sagas by borrowing certain generic tropes and alluding to the mythical Muninn the raven. It also exhibits uncharacteristically sophisticated self-referentiality, with Azazello highlighting the fictional status of the pseudo-saga through the added note about the arbitrariness of the centuries.
Sagas
/9th century/
Torn pieces of the banner flutter off,
let the heralds announce the arrival of nighttime.
clanging resounds and blood boils,
the screams grow hoarser and hoarser.
The torrent of arrows has reached those
who lay sleeping.
slippery grows the bloody mess of bodies and weapons
Muninn the raven is here for a reason,
it’s been ages since he’s last feasted.
Knights are dying, steeds are dying,
shields shatter amid groaning and crying—
a lance’s shadow slithers on the ground,
a scream, as it pierces the body reaches;
there’s no stopping now, the night is dowsed
in freshly spilled blood, everything’s false.
If I live to see the sun come out tomorrow,
i will get to see the resolution of the feast at which i’m now.
/9th century/
In the predawn silence,
which had bonded together fire and wind,
a lonely howl spread,
and the ravens gathered at once,
drawn to the bloody stench of death.
Crimson clouds crept close to the ground,
sprinkling the rusty grass with dried blood.
a lump of mud that had stuck to a wound and soaked it up,
now gently grazed the blue lifeless skin.
The raven’s beak and talons tore at the flesh,
he breathed his final breath, but his soul didn’t rise—
why was the warrior of glory stricken down by death?
The mighty walls will crumble, the cursed Babylon will fall,
the star will set, the beasts—go silent all,
the sunset—burn to ash, without a single drop of moisture,
only a beam will faintly flicker far away,
just so it could be seen.
The poem is quite unusual in its use of graphic imagery of violence, gore and death. It emulates the language of old sagas by borrowing certain generic tropes and alluding to the mythical Muninn the raven. It also exhibits uncharacteristically sophisticated self-referentiality, with Azazello highlighting the fictional status of the pseudo-saga through the added note about the arbitrariness of the centuries.
Sagas
/9th century/
Torn pieces of the banner flutter off,
let the heralds announce the arrival of nighttime.
clanging resounds and blood boils,
the screams grow hoarser and hoarser.
The torrent of arrows has reached those
who lay sleeping.
slippery grows the bloody mess of bodies and weapons
Muninn the raven is here for a reason,
it’s been ages since he’s last feasted.
Knights are dying, steeds are dying,
shields shatter amid groaning and crying—
a lance’s shadow slithers on the ground,
a scream, as it pierces the body reaches;
there’s no stopping now, the night is dowsed
in freshly spilled blood, everything’s false.
If I live to see the sun come out tomorrow,
i will get to see the resolution of the feast at which i’m now.
/9th century/
In the predawn silence,
which had bonded together fire and wind,
a lonely howl spread,
and the ravens gathered at once,
drawn to the bloody stench of death.
Crimson clouds crept close to the ground,
sprinkling the rusty grass with dried blood.
a lump of mud that had stuck to a wound and soaked it up,
now gently grazed the blue lifeless skin.
The raven’s beak and talons tore at the flesh,
he breathed his final breath, but his soul didn’t rise—
why was the warrior of glory stricken down by death?
The mighty walls will crumble, the cursed Babylon will fall,
the star will set, the beasts—go silent all,
the sunset—burn to ash, without a single drop of moisture,
only a beam will faintly flicker far away,
just so it could be seen.
I hack to the right and to the left—
cool deal,
splashes of blood and brain matter reach the sun,
the stars aren’t out yet,
so they haven’t tasted this swill made out of my brains.
I sprinkle the grass and the trees—
i will drown the entire earth.
it’s almost nighttime
the moon will come out,
it will be crimson,
the fiery bubble smolders and boils,
after all, its fuel is a gagged ghoul;
exhaustion takes over, and there’s so much deceit
yet he is no counterfeit.
____________________________
The poem makes allusions to a well-known children’s work “Aibolit” by Korney Chukovsky and engages in deliberate word-play with English.
In the bearded Limpopo,
a crocodile lies in ambush for him,
he is young Afriken man
he travels and plays on his tambourine,
as he walks to the Kalahari from the Congo,
the Bushmen and the Bantu recognize him
by the tambourine that he takes wherever he goes.
Oblivious, the young man wades into the river,
watch who’s after his freedom—the krokodeel!
the reptile is nothing but the spawn of evil,
the child of marimba, favela, benila,
the grandchild of Rock and of Chance--together!
tries to lock its teeth around the man’s leg—together!
The sun jumped in a fright, got tangled in a cloud,
gave itself a scare and made the gray cloud cry.
rock-music’s grandchild pounced
and snapped its razor teeth,
but a she-raffe came to the black’s rescue,
by emitting warning flu-ee-dos.
And so the young Afriken man,
follows along the bearded Limpopo.
Kalahari is to the right, that’s pretty close,
after all, there’s a good reason
the Afro-Rocks have chosen to send him
It veel be great-great miuzik.
cool deal,
splashes of blood and brain matter reach the sun,
the stars aren’t out yet,
so they haven’t tasted this swill made out of my brains.
I sprinkle the grass and the trees—
i will drown the entire earth.
it’s almost nighttime
the moon will come out,
it will be crimson,
the fiery bubble smolders and boils,
after all, its fuel is a gagged ghoul;
exhaustion takes over, and there’s so much deceit
yet he is no counterfeit.
____________________________
The poem makes allusions to a well-known children’s work “Aibolit” by Korney Chukovsky and engages in deliberate word-play with English.
In the bearded Limpopo,
a crocodile lies in ambush for him,
he is young Afriken man
he travels and plays on his tambourine,
as he walks to the Kalahari from the Congo,
the Bushmen and the Bantu recognize him
by the tambourine that he takes wherever he goes.
Oblivious, the young man wades into the river,
watch who’s after his freedom—the krokodeel!
the reptile is nothing but the spawn of evil,
the child of marimba, favela, benila,
the grandchild of Rock and of Chance--together!
tries to lock its teeth around the man’s leg—together!
The sun jumped in a fright, got tangled in a cloud,
gave itself a scare and made the gray cloud cry.
rock-music’s grandchild pounced
and snapped its razor teeth,
but a she-raffe came to the black’s rescue,
by emitting warning flu-ee-dos.
And so the young Afriken man,
follows along the bearded Limpopo.
Kalahari is to the right, that’s pretty close,
after all, there’s a good reason
the Afro-Rocks have chosen to send him
It veel be great-great miuzik.
I hack to the right and to the left—
cool deal,
splashes of blood and brain matter reach the sun,
the stars aren’t out yet,
so they haven’t tasted this swill made out of my brains.
I sprinkle the grass and the trees—
i will drown the entire earth.
it’s almost nighttime
the moon will come out,
it will be crimson,
the fiery bubble smolders and boils,
after all, its fuel is a gagged ghoul;
exhaustion takes over, and there’s so much deceit
yet he is no counterfeit.
____________________________
The poem makes allusions to a well-known children’s work “Aibolit” by Korney Chukovsky and engages in deliberate word-play with English.
In the bearded Limpopo,
a crocodile lies in ambush for him,
he is young Afriken man
he travels and plays on his tambourine,
as he walks to the Kalahari from the Congo,
the Bushmen and the Bantu recognize him
by the tambourine that he takes wherever he goes.
Oblivious, the young man wades into the river,
watch who’s after his freedom—the krokodeel!
the reptile is nothing but the spawn of evil,
the child of marimba, favela, benila,
the grandchild of Rock and of Chance--together!
tries to lock its teeth around the man’s leg—together!
The sun jumped in a fright, got tangled in a cloud,
gave itself a scare and made the gray cloud cry.
rock-music’s grandchild pounced
and snapped its razor teeth,
but a she-raffe came to the black’s rescue,
by emitting warning flu-ee-dos.
And so the young Afriken man,
follows along the bearded Limpopo.
Kalahari is to the right, that’s pretty close,
after all, there’s a good reason
the Afro-Rocks have chosen to send him
It veel be great-great miuzik.
cool deal,
splashes of blood and brain matter reach the sun,
the stars aren’t out yet,
so they haven’t tasted this swill made out of my brains.
I sprinkle the grass and the trees—
i will drown the entire earth.
it’s almost nighttime
the moon will come out,
it will be crimson,
the fiery bubble smolders and boils,
after all, its fuel is a gagged ghoul;
exhaustion takes over, and there’s so much deceit
yet he is no counterfeit.
____________________________
The poem makes allusions to a well-known children’s work “Aibolit” by Korney Chukovsky and engages in deliberate word-play with English.
In the bearded Limpopo,
a crocodile lies in ambush for him,
he is young Afriken man
he travels and plays on his tambourine,
as he walks to the Kalahari from the Congo,
the Bushmen and the Bantu recognize him
by the tambourine that he takes wherever he goes.
Oblivious, the young man wades into the river,
watch who’s after his freedom—the krokodeel!
the reptile is nothing but the spawn of evil,
the child of marimba, favela, benila,
the grandchild of Rock and of Chance--together!
tries to lock its teeth around the man’s leg—together!
The sun jumped in a fright, got tangled in a cloud,
gave itself a scare and made the gray cloud cry.
rock-music’s grandchild pounced
and snapped its razor teeth,
but a she-raffe came to the black’s rescue,
by emitting warning flu-ee-dos.
And so the young Afriken man,
follows along the bearded Limpopo.
Kalahari is to the right, that’s pretty close,
after all, there’s a good reason
the Afro-Rocks have chosen to send him
It veel be great-great miuzik.
Ode
I position myself and assume control,
my teeth tightly grip the tourniquet,
the needle finds the bulging vein
i feel a tiny pinch of pain,
blood backtracks into the glass gun,
the elastic slithers off my arm,
i slowly press the plunger,
and opium courses through me, babbling,
i’m pierced with needles head to toe,
the fever burns, my eyes are shut
yes, opium indeed is god,
and i, indeed, am also god.
_________________
Just as in the previous “Ode,” the short poem refers to opium, using the euphemistic “white juice” to describe the drug.
white juice drips from the sun in large drops,
and i walk through this rain of high,
the drops grow darker as they fall down,
they turn brown,
i nod under the blazing sun.
_________________
One last offensive, one final effort,
this is the last bastion we have to conquer,
and then the world will be ours,
and nobody will think,
that one could steal or sell another’s omnapon.
the cursed fridge—that hateful vermin,
is shattered into smithereens,
there won’t be room for families or perents,
no-one will use the phrase “our kids,”
no factories, no violence, no children,
in the new world there won’t be use for broken, rotten bits.
_________________
Then he abandoned hope and plunged into the howling hell.
_________________
Cruelty is no spring. Hatred is a pure feeling.
I position myself and assume control,
my teeth tightly grip the tourniquet,
the needle finds the bulging vein
i feel a tiny pinch of pain,
blood backtracks into the glass gun,
the elastic slithers off my arm,
i slowly press the plunger,
and opium courses through me, babbling,
i’m pierced with needles head to toe,
the fever burns, my eyes are shut
yes, opium indeed is god,
and i, indeed, am also god.
_________________
Just as in the previous “Ode,” the short poem refers to opium, using the euphemistic “white juice” to describe the drug.
white juice drips from the sun in large drops,
and i walk through this rain of high,
the drops grow darker as they fall down,
they turn brown,
i nod under the blazing sun.
_________________
One last offensive, one final effort,
this is the last bastion we have to conquer,
and then the world will be ours,
and nobody will think,
that one could steal or sell another’s omnapon.
the cursed fridge—that hateful vermin,
is shattered into smithereens,
there won’t be room for families or perents,
no-one will use the phrase “our kids,”
no factories, no violence, no children,
in the new world there won’t be use for broken, rotten bits.
_________________
Then he abandoned hope and plunged into the howling hell.
_________________
Cruelty is no spring. Hatred is a pure feeling.
he didn’t want to go to battle,
but they had his uniform made
he said, “i don’t want to kill people,”
and then they simply had him slayed.
but they had his uniform made
he said, “i don’t want to kill people,”
and then they simply had him slayed.
There, i died, and that’s that
Death has come,
we rejoice, we shout “hosanna.”
cancel the psalms!
put fresh halva in the icon lamps.
if the priest wants to come,
let him come dervish-like,
let him sing jagger-like.
Nor do i want a coffin, either.
four japanese kites will carry me--
the wind, the humming sound i’ll be.
Death has come,
we rejoice, we shout “hosanna.”
cancel the psalms!
put fresh halva in the icon lamps.
if the priest wants to come,
let him come dervish-like,
let him sing jagger-like.
Nor do i want a coffin, either.
four japanese kites will carry me--
the wind, the humming sound i’ll be.
-CRUM-CRUM- /dawn, Kiev/
The vertically stretched ball, barely warm, lemony-orange—either an orange or a lemon—in color, started slowly making its way up to where the sky was bluer /it longed to become a fiery spark-drop, and it could do so only at the point where the sky caved in the deepest/. And when it rose enough to start compressing into a small circle, the whiteness of its ray caught the eye of a bird perched behind eucalyptus trees; the pale film of its lid crawled towards the disheveled feathers on its head, and the bird said, “Crum-crum.”
________________________
The fire burning up on high
put an end to the creeping darkness,
it leapt up, sending through the sky
the myriad sparks that colored silence
in different hues—
i saw it with my own eyes.
i caught one with my own hands
/i never thought we’d find them,
before them came a crimson rain,
and pieces of cold lead whizzed
as they cut through me./
you slowly walk across the field,
you see the stars in your mind’s eye,
but the darkness obscures their wildness and will,
you can’t see them without the fire from on high.
The fire has taken the sky by a storm,
it doesn’t skip a single black window,
the forces of darkness will come undone,
all you must do is go around the corner,
and then the light will fall into your palms
and pour into your open eyes.
The vertically stretched ball, barely warm, lemony-orange—either an orange or a lemon—in color, started slowly making its way up to where the sky was bluer /it longed to become a fiery spark-drop, and it could do so only at the point where the sky caved in the deepest/. And when it rose enough to start compressing into a small circle, the whiteness of its ray caught the eye of a bird perched behind eucalyptus trees; the pale film of its lid crawled towards the disheveled feathers on its head, and the bird said, “Crum-crum.”
________________________
The fire burning up on high
put an end to the creeping darkness,
it leapt up, sending through the sky
the myriad sparks that colored silence
in different hues—
i saw it with my own eyes.
i caught one with my own hands
/i never thought we’d find them,
before them came a crimson rain,
and pieces of cold lead whizzed
as they cut through me./
you slowly walk across the field,
you see the stars in your mind’s eye,
but the darkness obscures their wildness and will,
you can’t see them without the fire from on high.
The fire has taken the sky by a storm,
it doesn’t skip a single black window,
the forces of darkness will come undone,
all you must do is go around the corner,
and then the light will fall into your palms
and pour into your open eyes.
Sorcerer
He travels from country to country,
he tells outlandish tales,
he makes magic ice, this Sorcerer.
It was on a cold riverbank
that I first spotted him,
he noticed my smile,
The black teacher of black magic
wished to show me the black bowels of the Earth,
so much time and sand has flowed since then,
Sighs and groans from the dungeons
reach me faintly,
once you’ve quenched your thirst with damp fog,
your senses become more acute.
The dark kingdom of magic leaps away underfoot,
eyes cloaked with hair,
you dive, head-first, into the soft moss.
_________________
In this short poem, Azazello once again plays with the fictional status of his creation, alluding to it as something possibly discovered or translated.
The ancient wall of darkness comes down with a crash,
bringing with it the ambush of black ash,
Gog and Magog, the tribes of death, have broken free
carrying in their tiny pupils the black freeze.
/possibly from Asia/
He travels from country to country,
he tells outlandish tales,
he makes magic ice, this Sorcerer.
It was on a cold riverbank
that I first spotted him,
he noticed my smile,
The black teacher of black magic
wished to show me the black bowels of the Earth,
so much time and sand has flowed since then,
Sighs and groans from the dungeons
reach me faintly,
once you’ve quenched your thirst with damp fog,
your senses become more acute.
The dark kingdom of magic leaps away underfoot,
eyes cloaked with hair,
you dive, head-first, into the soft moss.
_________________
In this short poem, Azazello once again plays with the fictional status of his creation, alluding to it as something possibly discovered or translated.
The ancient wall of darkness comes down with a crash,
bringing with it the ambush of black ash,
Gog and Magog, the tribes of death, have broken free
carrying in their tiny pupils the black freeze.
/possibly from Asia/
