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    unsecret Voronezh, in which Mandelshtam does not sleep,    
    that oscillating from the foam empty evenings to dark empty dawns    
    and the golden bee flock of night streets    
    is exodusing to the field of wasted amplitudes    
    mixing the humus and the hellenic hexameter,    
    centuries will appraise my transparent prophetic lines    
    but the devil on a madman is flying in a film of fog.    
    prepared to fall on the face as before the explosion are    
     the drunk executioner and sinister brigade of his candle-holders,    
    and children taken a drink of propaganda poison,    
    heroes of labour and scarlet gangs of narks. They are    
    innocent victims whose shadows disappear in flames without a trace.    
    Voronezh is mad and  beneath of its ashes   at night is not possible sleep in it,
    mournful secret visions are already smoldering.    
    no sleep. And above in the sky Stalin’s soldiers' boots shining,    
    and Cassandra howls - she is the mad prophet.    

Yury Proskuryakov




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