Nightwalk in Krasnogorsk

With some madness in his face
He was interested, he said,
In the history of my place
Instead of going to bed.

And I lectured him on our way
Down by the street of Komsomol.
I had a lot of things to say
That worried my soul.

Factory people slept.
There was no light to shine.
As the heavens wept
We took a bottle of wine.

I told him about Nikon the Patriarch
As we went by the local church
To a huge shadowy park
With mysterious lodge.

We dwelled at the streetlamp
When it snowed more and more...
There was earlier a camp
For the prisoners of war.

Of them very few
Returned from the North.
We watched heavy flakes flew
Like bullets to the earth.

There was also a band
Named after tall blonde —
They horrified the land
Of communist plod.

The gang looted and raged
And hanged around till dawn,
But did not brigandaged
At the city of own.

Remembering the days of old,
We came to the highway.
Then everything I told
Became wrong words to say.

Tonight we walked enough
It seemed rather cold there...
He took off his glove
And waved it in the air.

2011