❝ to love
into the depths of a yard
and, till the rook-black night,
with a shining axe…
tells us, humming
that the stalled engine
of the heart
has started to work
I love to watch children dying.
Have you seen my obscene
and behind the surf of laughter
the dark shadow of a tidal wave?
And what about me?
How many nights have I spent in the streets
reading the waiting list for the grave?
Midnight gropes me with soaking fingers
behind a broken fence, and a downpour beats
on the slick round dome of that crazy cathedral.
I’ve seen Christ
down from his cross
and run screaming, while the slush of the street
kissed the hem of his garments.
I cry to the concrete and jam my words
into the soft underbelly
of the swollen sky.
Won’t you please have mercy,
won’t you please take it easy
For this is my blood and you spill it
and it runs down the disappearing street.
And this is my soul and you tear it to pieces,
tie it to a steeple in a burnt-out sky.
Time, you crippled icon painter,
paint me on your wall.
Make me look
like the freak
of the century!
I am more alone
than the one good eye
of a man
going steadily blind.
❝ Tomorrow you’ll forget
that I have crowned you,
that I burned my flowering soul with love,
and the whirling carnival of trivial days
will ruffle the pages of my books…
Would the dry leaves of my words
force you to a stop
gasping for air?
At least let me
pave with a parting endearment
your retreating path. ❞
—— Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky, Lilichka (via fyodors)