In the beginning was the word
Maria Khamzina
And the sky was blazing, and it was piercing, as if
the spear that had yesterday's blood on it.
There torments were born and writhed the first word,
not yet hoping for food, protection and shelter.
The sunset drenched, shook the slimy feathers,
on the border slammed leathery century,
on the walls of the cave, frozen Carmine animals,
And the man who invented them cried in pain.
But the word took off, and the world lost its birthright.
And taste the lentils from now on, we vaguely familiar.
Words die, they can't fight...
Words kill - they don't sit under the castle.
The, the first, in feathers, and folds of the wrinkly skin,
Smelling of clay, knowing the fear of the dark,
Dies the penultimate-when nothing not will help,
before the hour of death. You'll be the last.
