IT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN TO INDIANS

Poem By Miroslav Kirin

The ground - still wet from the afternoon shower. Each little grass-blade
persistently returns the raindrops to the sky.
Having overheard this harmless dialogue, we failed to notice
the nightfall - suddenly it was there, between two cups of tea.
The clouds cleared up and I invited you to go out and watch the stars with
me.
Little do we know about them but it won't diminish the pleasure of watching
them.
Later on we resume drinking tea on the porch.
On the floor - like an empty wallet, a crushed frog. Seems I brought it
on the sticky sole of my sandal. Didn't hear a thing (as if the death of a live
being ought to be audible).
It would never happen to Indians, you say, they walk
barefoot out of respect for tiny beings.
I will never walk the night garden again, I decide.
Why don't you write a poem about it, you add having finished reading
a collection of ancient Chinese poetry.
But the thing is, how to write a poem about a crushed frog
out of respect for Chinese poets?

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A soprano from Schnittke's madrigal interferes with the voice of the potato vendor coming from the street.
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