We're few, perhaps three, hellish fellows Who hail from the flaming Donetz, With a fluid gray bark for our cover Made of rain-clouds and soldiers' soviets And verses and endless debates About art or it may be freight rates. We used to be people. We're epochs. Pell-mell we rush caravanwise As the tundra to groans of the tender And tension of pistons and ties. Together we'll rip through your prose, We'll whirl, a tornado of crows, And be off! But you'll not understand it Till late. So the wind in the dawn Hits the thatch on the roof-for a moment- But puts immortality on At trees' stormy sessions, in speech Of boughs the roof's shingles can't reach. |