Night – Vladimir Mayakovsky

Crimson and white discarded and crumpled,
handfuls of ducats were thrown into the green,
and the black palms of the running windows
the burning yellow cards were dealt.

The boulevards and squares were not strange
see blue togas on buildings.
And before running, like yellow wounds,
lights wrap bracelets legs.

The crowd is a variegated swift cat -
floated, curving, by the doors of the draw;
everyone wanted to push through at least a little
a huge laughter of a cast coma.

I, Feeling dresses calling paws,
squeezed a smile into their eyes, frightening
blows to tin, the araps laughed,
blooming a parrot's wing above the forehead.

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Alexander Pushkin