The fords are deep. The bridges have burnt down, And only skulls are visible. Itís close. The ins and outs are blocked all around. There is one way to go, - itís where the crowd goes. Like harnessed horses fastened to a vehicle and as a vivid proof that our world is small, The crowd moves in an exclusive circle Without any bearings at all. Caught in the rain the pallet spreads about A gallops bursts into a polonaise, smells, flowers, tones and rhythms have faded out, And oxygen has vanished in the haze. No act of thoughtlessness nor inspiration Can stop this spinning movement, - never once. Is this the everlasting circulation And what we callí perpetual advanceí?
© Alec Vagapov. Translation, 1998