Rye

Rye
Roman Yartsev

Rye at night the field is sown,
the face in the morning not shaving on...

The cow is not milked, the sheep are not fed...

The woman is not satisfied,
children yell obscenities - in the toilet shit do not shit...

Under the needle of a pine tree, tangling my hair...
Needles, slapped in the nose, in the pants-in the ether of my thoughts...