Gelia F is going up to her castle now.
She is looking for a new animal.
Her budgie flew out of its cage. ‘- My Sputnik’. Into space.
Now the Russian kabarda stallion is famous
for providing the best offsprings.
‘- Who says?’ I think she’s so masculine.
‘- Cell phones will kiss me. Of pure jealousy.
Obviously, I think she has a hot body.’
Shall we dance? ‘- It is completely unforgivable,
to ask me about that right now.’
So which one of us is actually Hitler?
Queen of strange tundras and unknown deities. My Siberia.
So lonely on the vast steppes. With glaciers and occult shamanism.
‘- You must never tell anyone
about my breasts,’ she says. Her winter shrubland is so precious.
Mine! I am Gollum among bloody rocks and icicles.
No trees, no bushes, only the sharp stone.
But we pick up straw in her Lada Niva.
To her sick Russian Kabarda horse.
Gelia F’s cheekbones are more beautiful
than rugura roses in the snow.
Not even those can I kiss.
My words have become hers,
and I will do everything she says.
I’m the bogatyr who has always looked after her
across countless numbers of reincarnations. Too sweet.
Once upon a time we were the Master and Margarita,
or Zivago and Lara or even Anna Karenina and Vronsky.
But Gelia F has to travel away from me,
and stay out in the healthy folk dance on the tundra of pure vastness.
There is a plague in my Muscovite dreams.
‘- Do not be depraved, as I don’t say, as you do.
Surely, I’ll stop loving you.’
One day it will be peace in our time.”