Анна Бродская читает стихи своего отца, Иосифа Бродского.
Вот отрывок из стихотворения.
As you pour yourself a scotch,
crush a roach, or check your watch,
as your hand adjusts your tie,
people die.
In the towns with funny names,
hit by bullets, cought in flames,
by and large not knowing why,
people die.
In small places you don't know
of, yet big for having no
chance to scream or say good-bye,
people die.
People die as you elect
new apostles of neglect,
self-restraint, etc. - whereby
people die.
Too far off to practice love
for thy neighbor/brother Slav,
where your cherubds dread to fly,
people die.
While the statues disagree,
Cain's version, history
for its fuel tends to buy
those who die.
As you watch the athletes score,
check your latest statement, or
sing your child a lullaby,
people die.
Time, whose sharp blood-thirsty quill
parts the killed from those who kill,
will pronounce the latter tribе
as your tribe.
