Queen of the Stop
You are proud and your walk is willful,
And majestic, exactly like a queen.
In bed, you are probably the country Uganda,
All ablaze with an African atmosphere of heat.
The sands are probably the hot Sahara's,
Or a hunting Safari amidst buffaloes.
Heels tap like tom-toms at the bus stop,
Near the railway mainline.
Illuminated, by the glow of a blinding sun,
Rain on the drum and even hail, and cold.
All ladies before you are no more beautiful than a Japanese man,
When you walk past them, having lifted your collar.
Boots shine, like the gleams of a cataphote,
Of a bicycle or maybe a scooter.
Legs flicker from work to work,
In winter on snow. In autumn in the swirl of leaf fall.
You stamp the asphalt and print with your feet,
Miss beauty of the Astafyevsky Zh. Z. L. district.
You drill passing men with your eyes,
Furtively, an unclaimed bride for marriage.
Years go by, and you are still alone all this time,
Seemingly "smart" goddess, "educated" to such an extent.
Untouchable, a touch-me-not in fits,
I feel sorry to see such queens and it hurts.
Isis! Where is your spouse Osiris?!
Where is Andromache your Great Hector?!
Where is the queen of "Star Wars" that Captain Attilis?!
An inspector of love, a professor in demeanor.
Sad is the gaze of the princess of noisy bus stops,
Not that of a mother, like a ritual knife.
Like hara-kiri it cuts from bottom to top and precisely to the side,
And pours a pound of salt into the wound and finely crushes it.
Well, who are you my black Ada Angel?
Or perhaps you are that Angel of joy from the gardens of Paradise.
Seemingly a small heap of whims is your character,
The nature of the young woman is clearly, obviously, wild.
Love is a dangerous game at the edge of a barrier,
And perhaps in the dark, you pine with sobs through the nights.
You weep, rage at the entire male race like a panther,
And do something with your hands between your legs.
For your trouble, even Avicenna cannot help here,
A shaman, a sorcerer is powerless, even Master to Margarita.
You are not the only one with such a beauty's problem,
As a marker puts an indelible cross on fate.
Like an alien you are from the constellation Orion,
Among ice floes in the Atlantic, the "confident" Titanic.
Four train cars approach Ovsyanka again,
Like Ben Affleck flying over Pearl Harbor.
The horn roars! And the cars tear off on their way,
And among the Ovsyanka thickets, window frames began to flicker.
The epaulettes of conductors flashed in those windows,
And eyes sharp as a Bushido sword of the queen's mother.
They rumbled past, shaking everything around with their wheels,
Your gaze disappeared, princess, into the shroud of fog.
The cars flashed with windows behind the bull of the cliff,
The tapping of those heel tom-toms was heard no more.
And I stand, saddened by my own fate,
For what you rejected me, and refused me.
The scent of your perfume and stuffy bedrooms faded,
In dreams, where you often visited them with me.
Kiselev A. A. 16. 09. 09