What Buttons On A Pursuit Car Remote

Transibérien

of Blaise Cendrars

At that time thence I was in my teens.

I was barely sixteen and already I could not remember most of my childhood

I was at 16,000 miles from my birthplace

I Moscow in the city of a thousand and three towers and seven stations

And I did not have enough stations and seven miles and three laps

For my adolescence was so ardent and so mad that my heart

Tower in turn, burned the temple of Ephesus as

or as Red Square in Moscow

When the sun goes down.

And my eyes lit up the old ways.

And I was already so bad poet

What I did not go through.

The Kremlin was like a huge cake

Tartar Crispy golden

With large almond cathedrals, all white

And honeyed gold bell ... An old monk

read me the legend of Novgorod

And I was thirsty I deciphered the cuneiform

Then, suddenly, the pigeons of the Holy Spirit flew over the place and my hands

also flew with rustling albatross

And this was the last echoes of the last day

From latest travel

And the sea

However, I was very bad poet.

I did not go through.

And I was hungry all day and all the women in pubs and all the glasses

I wanted to drink and break

And all the windows and all the streets

And all the houses and all the lives

And all the wheels of the cabs which turned into a whirlwind of bad blocks

I wanted to dive into a furnace of sword

And I wanted to crush all the bones and tear

all languages

liquefy And all these great bodies and naked in strange clothes that m'affolent ...

I foresaw the coming of Christ great red of the Russian Revolution ...

And the sun was a bad wound

that opens like an inferno.

In that time I was in my teens

I just sixteen and already I could not remember more of my birth

I was in Moscow where I wanted to feed flames

And I did not have enough towers and stations that studded my eyes

In Siberia the cannon thundered, it was war

Hunger cold fever and cholera

And the muddy waters of the Amur carting millions of carrion

In every station I could see from all the last trains

No one could leave because we no longer issuing tickets

And the soldiers who went would have liked to stay ...

An old monk sang me the legend of Novgorod