Kicking Pine Cones with Your Felt Boots - 7
THE RIVER VOLGA
After Lev Oshanin
From far away, growing
The Volga keeps flowing
It keeps and keeps flowing
With nothing in between
Among the corns ripened
Among the snows whitened
It takes its time flowing
I’m only seventeen
My mother said, Shit happens, my dear son
You may become too tired to keep it on
When you come to the Volga stick it in
And reassign your gender, change your scene
From far away, growing
My Volga keeps flowing
It keeps and keeps flowing
Like slowly moving trucks
Among the corns ripened
Among the snows whitened
It takes its time flowing
At once I’m thirty, fuck
Your first true glance, the first splash of your oar
It happened but it was oh such a bore
I do not pine for anything with ex-
Just can’t remember right what was my sex
From far away, growing
My Volga keeps flowing
It keeps and keeps flowing
Like piss or lukewarm beer
Among the corns ripened
Among the snows whitened
I look into your flowing
For almost fourscore years
So here I stand among my own dear friends
Here at the bank my winding road ends
And someone sings who’s looking just like me
Might be a he. Or maybe it’s a she
other pine cones:
Someone on a Hillside
Boating Down the River
My Felt Boots
The Town of Samara
Golden Lights
The Flowing Brook
* * *
After Lev Oshanin
From far away, growing
The Volga keeps flowing
It keeps and keeps flowing
With nothing in between
Among the corns ripened
Among the snows whitened
It takes its time flowing
I’m only seventeen
My mother said, Shit happens, my dear son
You may become too tired to keep it on
When you come to the Volga stick it in
And reassign your gender, change your scene
From far away, growing
My Volga keeps flowing
It keeps and keeps flowing
Like slowly moving trucks
Among the corns ripened
Among the snows whitened
It takes its time flowing
At once I’m thirty, fuck
Your first true glance, the first splash of your oar
It happened but it was oh such a bore
I do not pine for anything with ex-
Just can’t remember right what was my sex
From far away, growing
My Volga keeps flowing
It keeps and keeps flowing
Like piss or lukewarm beer
Among the corns ripened
Among the snows whitened
I look into your flowing
For almost fourscore years
So here I stand among my own dear friends
Here at the bank my winding road ends
And someone sings who’s looking just like me
Might be a he. Or maybe it’s a she
other pine cones:
Someone on a Hillside
Boating Down the River
My Felt Boots
The Town of Samara
Golden Lights
The Flowing Brook
* * *
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