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With your whole body, with your whole heart, with your whole conscience, listen to the Revolution.... This is the music everyone who has ears should hear.
Alexander Blok
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Grip your gun like a man, brother!
Let's have a crack at Holy Russia,
Mother
Russia
with her big, fat arse!
Freedom, freedom! Down with the cross!
Alexander Blok
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What message, years of conflagration,
have you: madness or hope? On thin
cheeks strained by war and liberation
bloody reflections still remain.
Alexander Blok
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Like the dog, stands the bourgeois, hungry,
A silent question to the sky;
The old world, like a homeless mongrel,
With tail between its legs stands by.
Alexander Blok
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The wind plays up; snow flutters down.
Twelve men are marching through the town.
Alexander Blok
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O, my Russia! O, wife! The long road is clear to us to the point of pain. Our road – like a Tatar arrow of ancient will has pierced our breast.
Alexander Blok
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On they march with sovereign tread,
With a starving dog behind,
With a blood-red flag ahead –
In the storm where none can see,
From the rifle bullets free,
Gently walking on the snow,
Where like pearls the snowflakes glow,
Marches rose-crowned in the van
Jesus Christ, the Son of Man.
Alexander Blok
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So they march with sovereign tread…
Behind them limps the hungry dog,
and wrapped in wild snow at their head
carrying a blood-red flag
soft-footed where the blizzard swirls,
invulnerable where bullets crossed –
crowned with a crown of
snowflake pearls,
a flowery diadem of frost,
ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.
Alexander Blok
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When rowan leaves are dank and rusting
And rowan berries red as blood,
When in my palm the hangman's thrusting
The final nail with bony thud,
When, over the foul flooding river,
Upon the wet grey height, I toss
Before my land's grim looks, and shiver
As I swing here upon the cross,
Then, through the blood and weeping, stretches
My dying sight to space remote;
I see upon the river's reaches
Christ sailing to me in a boat.
Alexander Blok
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My spirit is old; and some black lot awaits me
On my long road.
Some dream accurst, inveterate, suffocates me
Still with its load.
So young – yet hosts of dreadful thoughts appal me,
Sick and opprest.
Come! and from shadowy phantoms disenthral me,
Friend.
Alexander Blok
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Ah, a bitter bitterness,
A sweet life we've won,
With a tattered overcoat
And an Austrian gun.
Alexander Blok
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Caps tilted, fag drooping, every one
looks like a jailbird on the run.
Alexander Blok
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Hell and damnation,
life is such fun
with a ragged greatcoat
and a Jerry gun!
Alexander Blok
Quote of the day
Good authors, too, who once knew better words Now only use four-letter words Writing prose — Anything goes.
Cole Porter
Alexander Blok
Creative Commons
Born:
November 16, 1880
Died:
August 7, 1921
(aged 40)
Bio:
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok was a Russian lyrical poet.
Alexander Blok on Wikipedia
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