Call me by my name,
Draw a storyline
Where over a city torn apart
The clouds are weeping;
Where, soaked through with betrayal,
The snow is bleeding
And there is one long road,
And even that one into a trap.
How many more days can you barter
Out of the old woman,
How many more versts will you hold out
With a muzzle to your temple?
Call me by my name,
And the light will go out:
Station-side crematoria,
«Красная строка», literally “a red line,” is the Russian for the indented first line of a paragraph.
.
Call me by my name,
Come on, don’t be shy.
We are old friends, you and I,
Almost since mother’s milk.
To the fumes of rootless symbols —
White on armour
Or gold on a monogram, yes,
On the enemy’s shoulder
We’ll send them seven oxen for a feast
Straight down the pipe —
Let them measure their righteous wrath
In kilowatt-centuries.
Call me by my name
And fly to me,
Holding out your mortal wings
To a MANPADS!
Call me by my name,
Why have you gone quiet?
See, rising over the ruins,
A new moon?
Call me by my name,
And not between the lines: