The Book of Another

Александр КРИВОШЕЕВ | Поэзия


The Book of Another

On the outskirts of the soul there is silence,
As thoughts dance through minutes of intrigue.
Don’t search for the precious, the quiet,
A book left unread, bearing shadows.

Through pages now dawns sunlit morning.
Foreign heroes are suddenly born.
Here begins a new story
Borne on the shoulders of Troy.

Each word contains pieces of heaven,
Gracefully falling in line.
The toil, a reflection of wonders,
A dream in this vanity rush.

So day dreams evolve into words.
Rival banners melt into the sky.
Momentum created by rumors
Of victory won by the restless.



Above the river, life cries softly
As silence dies out in sadness.
An old horse strides up ever so lightly,
Into the water his mane he lowers.

He who lost the dream, the peace,
Has returned to his home forests.
In his eyes is the same old speck,
While inside the thick curtain remains.

The warrior cries from the river bed,
One who long has not risen a victor.
The currants will be overgrown and dead,
But none will recall what we’ve seen here.

God’s creature will flee to safety,
As thirsty, the will overpowers.
Dead, they will never feel pain again.
They who might conquer the waters.


The Forest Tale

Oh the pride of the forest trail,
Here live beasts of which none yet know.
Shrill and resounding, the trumpet call,
Again, the field littered with losses.

Each seeks his missing close one.
At the mercy of fortune, or by trails.
Again the sun smiled on rain.
For this we were all grateful.

The search is again crowned in anguish,
Shortest summer is crumbling to dust.
But as before, you’re content with yourself.
While the field lies behind games of lights.

The lost will yet find their sanctum.
The forest shelters our hallowed secrets.
The beasts forge the hammer of hope,
Only to turn and to strike creation…


The Tear

To Irina Krivankina

A tear falls from the shot glass.
Not fully transformed into wine.
Before even encountring the walls
Our voices are gone with no sign.

So leaving family and close ones.
Their sendoff sung by humble tenor,
For a moment, exhales fill my vains,
When past the hills, we send them further.

We’ve nothing left to do but mourn.
Fully know what we have lost
And at every orthodox remembrance
Observe traditions past.

By then, everything is simple,
Conversing with gods of every kind.
With everyone but us.
Drink up the bitterest of wine.

Forgiveness reigning once and for all.
Remembering joyful days,
We’ll draw out sorrow’s reckoning.
The vortex of life in the everyday.

I loved one gone, take what you have,
Remember the joy of passed moments.
In hours of inhuman trials
Idolize them for yourself.

This farewell must be your last.
All that will remain is recognition.
Live and remember: the universe
Yet keeps account of every name.

So leaving family and close ones.
The hills be covered soon with snow.
We’ll say goodbye to beloved eyes,
But memories we will not let go.


The Earth Is Shaped Like A Suitcase

To Y.M.

The earth is shaped like a suitcase,
This you told me face to face,
While I had thought her a rounded place
Although with edges she is laced.

We swarm after utensils never dying,
Weeping, loving, from others shying,
While the globe so huge is still safe and turning,
The short mise en scene just leaves her laughing.

The years grow old, life loves food and drink,
Daily complacency and age grow drunk,
With second class dust settling on the brink,
To a business seat there is no link.

Await the taverns, restaurants and pubs,
Where loyal friends will meet their love,
Now knowing what is good, what’s not
They fill their glasses to the brims.

While on the edge of this four cornered sphere,
A dream is sadly crying over your fear,
The earth is shaped like a suitcase, for you
This you told me this yourself.
Yesterday yourself


To The Creator

Instead of a concert — blurry walls,
One must say, yes, he broke the chair.
Where is the personality light? What substitutes your faith?
You swallow the ferment of future victories there.

A smile…for many there is no law,
Maybe you are of them…but the idea is old.
Pour out your soul on the ancient road,
Let feet be wiped,
And ages pass by.


About the author:

Aleksander Krivosheev is the founder of the Zmelovy poet punk society and organizer of literary-musical events.  As part of various projects, he participated in numerous festivals throughout Russia. He worked with many famous musicians and artists. Since 2016 he has been a member of the Russian union of writers and candidate of the international union of writers. Nominated for the Poet of the Year award.

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