Prairie

I was born an Indian in a residential area of ​​a Russian city

I think it's called Vologda

I smoked a peace pipe

beat the big drum

His mother took him to wash clothes

Father ate my pipe

And the tribal war began

where I died

one hundred thousand times

But the earth didn't take me

And the arrows didn't hit me

And the spears didn’t hit me

Only father sometimes

But I was resurrected

and every wigwam knew my name

and when I galloped across the prairie

women wove feathers

in your black long hair

and the men drew stripes

on stern, wounded faces

but one day someone's hand

grabbed me by the collar

and threw it into the corner of the table

my temple was shattered by a bullet

insidious stranger

he came here by water

and my grandfather said - if people

don't drown, then there will be trouble

Mother screamed "don't you dare, bastard"

I fell off my horse

and saw her face

broken like an egg

wild duck

when I had breakfast by the fire

We looked eye to eye

and she smiled at me

maybe not for me

or maybe

good spirit