Anatoly Mariengof - Two poems


The night, like a tear, flowed out of an immense eye
and rolled down along the roofs upon the lashes.
Sorrow rose up like Lazarus
and raced in the streets to cry and blame everyone,
throwing herself around necks – and everyone flipped
and screamed: you're insane!
and with whoops of fear beat the eardrums
ringing like diamond cards.

                                                           1917



A dark spot as though from a squashed cranberry.
Quiet please.  Don't slam the door.  Dear Sir...
Four very simple letters:
 – dead.

                                                           1918

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