Now we live as if in a Russian novel
written in verse, by Aleksandr Pushkin.
We are the ones changing the street signs
but we are needy
and sleep in the same bed under a mountain
of clothes while the frost creaks.
Now Moscow is
and we trudge on. Everything is a lie
just as in reality.
You fantasize abouth stealing the machine gun
from a sleeping soldier,
but the soldiers stay awake
all night with you.
And you dance all night in Café Pushkin,
while I stand in the cloakroom
smoking Russian cigarettes,
Now you are called Natalia
and talk like someone who's crazy
And Pushkin was actually murdered
by her lover.
Translated by P.K Brask & Patrick Friesen
© Niels Hav