poems back artist cataloque
 
A large dark hall. There are rows of seats with
people.The spokesman on the platform is gesturing.
There,s a table covered with red cloth behind.
That,s where I'm sitting...
Jesus...Jesus...
By Lenin,s side...By Dzerzhinsky's side...
Dzerzhinsky's watching the hall and the spokesman
ousterely.
Lenin,s trying to choke his yawn.
I think, so great he is - but bored as well.
He doesn't lack human.
And so I sat engaged in dreaming.
A nudge into my flank made me regain consciousness.
Dzerzhinsky,stop slumbering already!
The leader,s touch was flattering, but it was necessary to explain I was no Dzerzhinsky.
Of cjurse, it's dark here, you can fail to spotn a
newcomer.
But - good gracious! What's that? My face has
moustache. here's some uncomfotable service jacket
on my shoulders. I think it's not me.
Not me! Who's that I wonder!
I seem to have uttered an awful sound, given
Lenin a start so that he nodded.
It's true, Dzerzhinsky, he,s not to be trusted.
The reality of the incredible transformation got my
consciousness at last. I became himself...
Someone's pulling the lap of my jacket. I turn
round. There's a small shrivelled old woman.
She twitters, "I belive both in God and monarhy!"
I could merely smirk before. But now I feel the
burden of the great responsibility. And frjwned I
say slowly and severely,"Think about descendants!"
The old woman squeaked and rushed away. The
seats are rattling when moved aside.
Everybody stands up and start singing the Internationale
I stand up also and sing with trepidancy,"That
is our final..."
Thats when I wake up.
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