Baku – Vladimir Mayakovsky

Baku.
Wind city.
Sand spits in your eyes.
Baku.
City of fires.
Polishing Balakhan.
Baku.
Leaves - soot.
Branches - wires.
Baku.
Brooks -
oil ink.
Baku.
Flat-topped houses.
Hump-nosed people.
Baku.
Nobody settles in for fun.
Baku.
Greasy stain in the jacket of the world.
Baku.
Mud tank,
but to you
i'm reaching
love
more -
what attracts the dervish to Tibet,
Mecca - the orthodox,
Jerusalem -
Christian
on the mantis.
For you
machines sigh
billions
pistons and wheels.
Kiss
and again
kiss T, without abating,
oil,
oil,
quiet
and vzasos.
Will of the city
not daring to resist,
a chain of linked bodies
cling
to Baku
obediently
even snakes
wriggling cisterns.
If in the future
hard to believe -
that's why,
what's to the brim
pours out
capitals in the heart
black
бакинская
thick blood.

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Marina Tsvetaeva