For Whom The Bell Tolls


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What dawns on us but truth,
If not to convince the youth,
Like water from a fountain,
Whatever happens no excuse,
This is conversations with glory,
Face to face with time,
They hold banners of revolution
If the clock ticks past nine,
But after twelve its all hell,
though walls still stand like eyes through veil,
looking for salvation through a peephole in a cell,
like a priest and a king,
having dinner over bells.

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The Journalist and His Companion


by Boris Scherbakov

 

I want a companion to roam the world with me,

Hand in hand we’ll conquer each city,

And drift into trances at dawn, only

To wake up at dusk in the country.

 

A few kisses here and there, as you hand

Me the camera that will capture the world:

Children starving, a mother’s crying,

Earth stolen, barons lying.