By Boris Levin, a Talented Mental Patient
The English Rendition, by Anna Polibina-Polansky
The Crisis of the Genre ***
Oh the crisis of the themes,
Of the genres and of the matters.
We encounter it, scattered;
We are all forlorn, of schemes.
To be lonesome, it's a cross.
From beyond, it's meant for good ones.
But we feel, it's of no loss,
As we contemplate the rood scapes.
So the destiny decides
To put us to those locations.
We go all astray, no signs
Bless our poor destination.
Where the east and where the west
Are, we do foget, in sadness.
Willows cry, in days unblessed.
Hot blood runs in veins, at madness.
Transl. in 2012