Tim Skorenko

I want to go back, as the late poet, in this city,
Full stone mysteries and reeking of history so
That no one will dare to say: three hundred years too young
To smoothly play mnogoletnii bizarre manner.

I was not born here. Well and God with it — we can't all be born
Between the dark rimmed sleep Griboedov rivers
In this exuberant amazing heart on fingers
Vast country. Is erected man

Golden spires and walls consumptive prisons
Megaglobe palaces and iron taps ports
Subordinates own wild, absurd structure
And covered with a cloud of gray-rainy coat...

To zheltokamenka sphinxes are Arianny thread
All the roads out of Rome, and dust from the cuffs of Brabant:
St. Petersburg was built by great Builder
Petersburg goodbye sang the banned poet.

I promise I'll be back. Not today. Not tomorrow. Soon.
But throw a piece of soul, like a coin in a fountain
Because I love, unrestrained love this city
And I want it to go. Because wasn't born there.

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