The Black Horse
[SUP]5[/SUP] And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. [SUP]6[/SUP] And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine. (Rev. 6: 5-6)
[video=youtube;5A4_Y3Nn-Bw]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5A4_Y3Nn-Bw[/video]
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[TD]V magazine
Kto v platke, a kto v platochke,
Kak na podvig, kak na trud,
V magazin poodinochke
Molcha zehnshchiny idut.
O, bidonov ikh bryatsanye,
Zvon butylok i kastryul.
Pakhnet lukom, ogurtsami,
Pakhnet sousom Kabul.
Zyabnu, dolgo v kassu stoya,
No pokuda dvizhus k nei,
Ot dykhanya zhenshchin stolkikh
V magazine vsyo teplei.
Oni tikho podzhidayut,
Bogi dobryye semi,
I v rukakh oni szhimayut
Dengi trudnyye svoi.
Eto zhenshchiny Rossii,
Eto nasha chest i sud.
I beton oni mesili,
I pakhali, i kosili.
Vsyo oni perenosili,
Vsyo oni perenesut.
Vsyo na svete im posilno,
Skolko sily im dano.
Ikh obschityvat postydno,
Ikh obveshivat greshno.
I, v karman pelmeni sunuv,
Ya smotryu, surov i tikh,
Na ustalyye ot sumok
Ruki pravednyye ikh.
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[TD]In the Store
Some in shawls, some kerchiefs,
As if to a heroic feat or labor
Into the store one by one
Women silently enter.
Oh, the clanking of the cans,
The clanging of the bottles and saucepans.
The smell of onions and cucumbers,
The smell of "Kabul" sauce.
I shiver queuing for the cashier
But as I keep moving closer
From the breathing of so many women
It gets warmer in the store.
They wait silently,
The family's kind gods,
As they clutch in their hands
The hard-earned money.
These are women of Russia,
They are our honor and our conscience.
They have mixed concrete
And ploughed and reaped.
They have endured everything.
They will endure everything.
Everything on earth is possible for them,
They have been given so much strength.
It is shameful to short-change them.
It is sinful to short-weigh them.
And, shoving dumplings into my pocket,
I look, solemn and quiet,
At their weary-from-shopping,
Saintly hands.
Text: Yevgeny Yevtushenko
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