Сложные стихи на английском

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Артем Тюльников

Год написания книги

2023

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On their lips is bitterness of the romaine.

Why do they ward themselves with purslane?

My pelt cannot resist the stain,

As though it were a bloating blain.

The one that does not let me gain

A key to match the lock that holds a chain

That chokes me down to restrain

As if it is as toxic as henbane,

Manifestation of a pure bane.

I’m repellent that attracts migraine.

If we were fleas then I would be fleabane.

If you appeal to cattle then I’ll appear as murrain.

It is that easy to explain.

Allegedly my esoteric reign

Is hard to take without disdain

In all those realms that form a plain

Where drought has never felt my rain.

And at an altitude of plane

Being a real tramontane, -

A bird that’ll never find its skein

Or in the caverns deep where I’ve once lain

Watched them deplete my ore vein

Striving for former might and main

I saw the land of withered grain,

I came across a peneplain.

It smashed my stand by giving me a cane -

To walk I had to be a whooping crane.

I thought it was to maintain

The knowledge that was not arcane.

But things they’ve built I call insane.

My railway’s weak to hold their train.

Their minor freight can bend my crane.

That human waste does not accept my main.

My strength is fizzing like champagne.

Your grubs are on my sugarcane.

Even direction of my wind is inhumane,

It can’t be shown by your vane.

Things are tendentious through my windowpane,

Way more surreal than mundane.

As I could scent the odorless methane.

And where’s no way I might see twain.

Detour a mountain and I’ll burst it open treading submontane.

I’m all alone, I struggle not to appertain

To any fraction as they’re all inane.

A crime for which myself I can’t arraign.

If I keep up I won’t be harnessed to your wain.

Which means that I’ll be separated by your ominous membrane.

There’s left one thing that can’t be slain…

It’s havoc – or acceptance of free rein.

Where temperance is on the wane