Imitation to Nekrasov

Oh, how terribly the future smells! Immediately dragged out of rest. But this is a molecule, a drop, and then it flips the river!

I’ll rip off, like Nekrasov, on the fun of the overseas guests over the fate of my native lobotyas, loyalists, wrestlers and authorities. To the two hundredth of the poet-prophet under the usual ringing of the shackles, we will say aloud: they screwed up cruelly for the past couple of centuries. Our feasts became scanty for the arrival of war and terror, and I'm afraid we will compare soon with the "contemporary" of the early time. We had many commanders - both denunciations*and the CPSU, and today our censor is Kadyrov: you can’t do anything, progress.

There was a free Russian word, but then his time was leaving. Sometimes it was harsh, sometimes it was funny, there were all sorts of Daily and Weekly, who revived the local landscape - but we were so wealthy as the readers of Pravda were so wealthy. Nowadays, an invaluable word for readers who got into Frunt, so deafeningly new that a riot is behind each. Grandfather or great -grandfather was also tormented, shuddering with the whole demand: "Can you tell me, they will not put me for the words about the bad weather?"

Your thoughts, Comrade Sokurov, start to share them a little, angry not only the Kremlin Augurs, but all the patriots of Chechnya.

Your speeches, Comrade Muratov, are imbued with an alien spirit, excludes synchronous trembling among the expanses and autocrats. Everything in Russia is now small, you can’t say the words of truth - unless at the lecture in Oslo or, scary to say, in the honeymark.

My native nature grinded, my native Hamier was insolent, and in the Kremlin it is also censorship - even Putin is afraid of it. Sometimes I feel sorry for him: darling! In the eternal darkness, his office. Like if you don’t say something about something, then it turns out, no. But Sokurov, as well as Muratov, could not restrain themselves, as in the fairy tale of the child **, and in the middle of the choir of court castrates, as if the bell had struck. Although - they did not say anything that there was no longer a hundred -sneakers. But in the Fatherland, weaned from the word, and the banality sounds like an alarm.

Oh, how terribly the future smells! Immediately dragged out of rest. But this is a molecule, a drop, and then it flips the river! This island from dirt and ice will absorb the cold summer - and this stench era will appear then then. So many truths of evil and bitter will reveal to us abruptly, once or twice-that under this purulent crust, she secretly matured and grew menacingly! Augur lied, and the fortuneteller was silent, and in embarrassment she squinted to know ... And for the first time I feel sorry for Putin. He knows, he cannot but know. And what a sad, absurd, understanding fate, a hopeless, sad cross, feels on the edge! How scared you are, Kadyrov and Putin, how your world floats up to scrape! How familiar is, wretched and comfortable, it will appear retroactively! After all, it is really a pity, in fact, all satraps, from mountains to plains. They wanted to cancel the course of time - but Navin could not ... and what a terrible abyss we rush on a dirty wave! (In it and I will disappear with you, but it’s not easier for me.) Hiding the obvious truth, we will not cancel it, the vizier, even if Muratov and Sokurov shut up in the monastery. Our will does not mean anything, it will take too many acquaintances.

Is it easier for you to cry over you - not Nekrasov, but also a poet?

* So the people called Pobedonostsev.

** "Naked King."