the beginning quite glibly has just been run over,
a tram-car at Patriarch’s Pond whirled and pitched,
poor thing, it must have slipped on frosted glass.
The blind sun, plucked by the sleeve, whispered to,
winked at, meanders by the river – at the same time
disaster struck, the bicycle stopped the moment
the front wheel, disabled, picked up the receiver
and here discovered Nikanor Ivanovich was dead.
The ushers of God, among other things, were running
around looking quite indecent, not yet golden but white.
“Good Heavens, we know precisely nothing of what
is written in the Gospels,” they said. Berlioz stopped
short, separated from asphalt paved winter by a seedy
cast-iron fence. A snow pile stuck a shovel
in summertime, called it ‘The House of Griboedov’
whether it did or did not belong. On recollection,
one Moscow liar read passages from Woe
From Wit though devil knows how unfortunate Mikhail
was shot this minute! The news spread through
Thursday morning’s thirty-two such declarations:
Pilate disappeared into the sixth entrance,
not a grain of doubt left – the end had been unstuck