The  Blue Package to Stalin by Nikolai Tikhonoff

The wind cut his elbows, beyond the field – a ravine,

The man ran up, turned black, lay down. half-died,

He lay down by the fire, wheezed: "A horse!"

And it became cold by the fire and worse.

And the horse struck, bit the mouthpiece ,

Four hooves and a pair of hands. it’s surprise.

Lake – into a lake, meadows into a quarry.

The sky bent like an colored arc glory.

The earth flies like a telegram, linking,

The fields ring with an even ringing.

But  the horse's heart is not a bird – not weigher.

It is wound up on the clock not forever.

Two steps – a jump, and the step limped,

The man came to the station alone for a train.

He breathed hard like a leaky sack,

The station then told him: "Good. luck!”

“Good luck!”, -the locomotive rustled to him both

And carried the blue package to the north.

It carried, slightly swinging in the air,

Wheel to wheel - wheel to wheel,   shared.

Fifty, sixty, seventy miles huge .

On the seventy-third - a river and a bridge,

Dynamite, tol and fuse -  brother .their

And wagon after wagon  are flying to the hell.

Cabbage, sunflower, sleepers, a post, as example.

The commandant is simple and the package is simple.

But the pilot is stubborn and a quarter drunk,

And the biplane is drunk with green blood. in  the tank.

Four power wings hit the sky, unforgotten.

And the darkness swayed, and the darkness floated.

No searchlight, no moon,  for such a brave,

No rustle of a field, no ever noise of a wave…

The head is already falling off the shoulders,

Tula flashed - Moscow is floating. rather  nearer.

But the rudders fell asleep in flight, rude

And the elevator slept through the altitude.

The earth hits towards him with all its might, must,

Tangling their feet, the people came running fast.

He said with his mouth full of earth mud:

"First the package - then two my leg."

The streets are empty - Moscow is quiet,

The city barely wakes up, still tired.

And the Kremlin is still sleeping, like an older brother,

But people in the Kremlin never sleep,  neither.

The letter is caked in dirt and his blood,

And the man tore it askew for the contents  hold.

He read it - wiped his hands on his  khaki  jacket,

Crumpled it up and threw it behind the carpet.

:"Unfortunately It is a half an hour late,

No need - I already know everything myself."