by Yury Milorava
translated by Anna Halberstadt

A view.  Of this orderly desert,
not at all created by nature,
400 carts of salt had been gathered
there are two points of reference here, but what has been left
is not even worth mentionng
(unless you would consider     but after the destruction of all local
literature, a treatise, that one
was allowed to take out of the country «On Agriculture» by Magon,
translated by Decimus Junius Silanus)
___________________________

battering rams.     and torches.
they ploughed a burnt down field
and brought there these 400 carts.

Today this is sand with crumbs
Or maybe already pollen in sand?—there no shapes left of
buildings foundations, streets or
squares, and people do not live here any longer
450, 000 people murdered,
50,000—taken into slavery
outside the borders of this white stain there is joy
Delightful Cool of the Atlass Mountains     and the sand dunes of
Sahara desert
full of minerals and breathing fire     and
the frothy aquamarine of the Mediterranean sea
on the horizon.                       And generous green peaceful olive
groves

there the predatory Empire Eagle had a ball.

Since then this a an eternal holiday for the vacationing
and the world’s largest collection of Roman mosaics     from little
pieces of marble
colored every shade one can imagine the splendour takes your
breath away
but not a single fragment even a piece of, could not be found of a
Carthaginian
painting—floor mosaic, and Carthage itself is no longer natural
habitat for the bird Phoenix…
and nothing     even moth does not fly here.  And because this
place is so popular and interesting
and educational, tour guides had been bringing here for a little
while for the last 19 centuries
hordes of maniacal vacationers and traveling fanatics, obsessed
with one ridiculous phrase and a
crazy idea by the deep thinker and writer Cato the Elder, born
Marcus Porcius Cato.

by Yury Milorava
translated by Anna Halberstadt

Risk,
intuition telling you to get loose
from your limitations,
your inner voice, touching a shadow,
playing with prayer beads, this time whispers:
“don’t tease theimitation eagle owl,
a scarecrow to scare birds on the open metro platform,
find a way
to entertain yourself differently.
Same rule applies to big dolls as well.”

But the dolls, robots and stuffed birds demand gratitude.  They are
never satisfied.
The demanding tribe, which belonged to the generation of
children’s thank you-s
never had enough.

My communist thank you to Comrade Stalin and to Comrade Daddy
for their sweet severity, for theirfulfilled civilian and parental duties,
and
for all of my horrific childhood!

My communist thank you to Comrade Stalin and Comrade Mommy
for the heroically and happily executed civilian and parental,
duties,
and for the complete nightmare of my childhood!

Children’s heels are always in motion.  And a second earlier, in the sun.
But…
they sparkle in the grass,
to be followed by a horrendous scream.
Bent over heavenly windowsills, children
are being targeted, pounded by heavy voices
of parents, focused on them,
here a bunch of parents have gathered on a large lawn
for a Sunday picnic
They order, limit, rule, demand something they have know idea about
and scream gibberish, the tone of their voices out of control,
insulting, more and more scandalous.
Second, third, windowsills.

Higher up, finally, there are some new empty windowsills and
there is freedom,
children run around and jump in the space, closer to clouds,
children’s heels moving.  Heels.
You can see heels.
But now it’s complicated, difficult, only
among sun rays.  Only through a lens, through binoculars.
or through a telescopic aim.

by Yury Milorava
translated by Anna Halberstadt

The top,
too much, too Chicago…

And the city
will not reveal it completely,
when antimony,
like morning dew,
vertically…
he
thinking,—
only freshness
could replace itself. . .
on the same—
angle,—
a needle—imperial pen-could.
Form him to comprehend:
«Carthaginem
delendam esse.»

The view…a hundred years after the wall breaking machines and
the fires, they were raising it,—
A bird,
A beam, a roof at a time.

a foundation, of the jungle—of walls.
where with sculptures immovable,—an entrance adds a choice,
into an avenue…when they
conceived, layed out it with stones and bricks—Chicago
architects.

The view of the sculpture, metal.
Olive—in tan bronze—o, a dense shadow…proud, at a distance,
on the side, very much alone.

Looking through the crowd onto the clock of time, on strolling
back and forth techno-ants!…

by Elena Fanailova
translated by Genya Turovskaya

Don’t return: the KGB is back
And parodies of the stagnation.
Don’t think of me
I am an empty soul
A receptacle of filth, a prison cell of fire
Like a tree in a storm
Like the furnace for Lazo

Like a clay vessel
In a blind potter’s hands
I am my own supreme judge and executioner,
Who never misses, fires from the hip

But why did I begin?

Why this rough sketch etched into the ground
And this thought so heavy on my brow,
When the whole world lies in darkness
And your love churns up in me
A ton of darkness?
And there’s no one I can tell
And I have to mind my business.

And where once stood a table of posthumous delights,
A table stands no more.