Leonid Gubanov's poem about pencils, tears and a breakfast on the grass

Lord! Finish off
the tears from our soul,
the soft pencils
sleep in their little white shirts.
Tomorrow I shall take their heads off
with a sharp razor.
They will tell me: draw
that breakfast on the grass.
My golden one will become
taller than the others,
for the repose of the sun
the greenery runs to the graveyard.
My boys,
you owe the dawn your quitrent,
white cranes
honed with a red knife

Literal translation

Leonid Gubanov

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Leonid Gubanov's poem about pencils, tears and a breakfast on the grass

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September digest: archaeological finds, exhibitions, museums, theatre and the Church

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