On the Wings of Hope : Prose

Fyodor :- You’ve got a humor in the stock! And what is that?

V.V.P. :- It’s winged dog!

Fyodor :- And even horse these wings has gain?!

V.V.P. :- Pegasus flying in the rain!

Fyodor :- It’s sort of miracle as such …

V.V.P. :- I do agree, so don’t you touch!

Fyodor :- Ivan’s no doubt, lucky one!

V.V.P. :- And more skills are yet to come. He’s our curiosity with all verbosity!

Fyodor :- I am so happy for that man! Flying’s is part of Divine Plan.

V.V.P. :- Into the Garden we will go … the road is shining with new glow.

Fyodor :- Someone will enter, others not. The battle’s getting more hot.

V.V.P. :- I pity those still doing crime. Just like American marine …

Fyodor :- How USA is living, yes?

V.V.P. :- Ivan, show us this teaching mess!

As if having found second wings, let it even be somewhat artificial, in reality, Ivan in unity with a camera and his great desire leaves chock-full pavilion with Not-So-Angels and sharply soars up to the clouds. For a short instant the camera appears to be blinded by beams of a rising sun, and then the audience can behold for some time gentle curly-headed cloudlets-lambs and flying by flights of pigeons. Then all of a sudden the camera dives down, cutting clouds and having frightened off the next flock of totally not guilty of anything birds, and depressing in the monotone picture reveals before televiewers.

Wherever you look - everywhere there are dilapidated and almost depopulated cities with rickety houses and beaten-out glasses, through streets of which  winds keeps walking and rolling goodness know where from brought tumbleweed and other not taken out from fire chestnuts. From time to time through this or that street some figure rushes on, bearing a faint resemblance to human, yet by its habits and appearance more resembling Neanderthal men. Sometimes silent abuse comes off from Ivan’s side, along with advices to be cleaned from “this burial ground of stinking macaques” as quicker as possible. The picture, revealing before televiewers indeed partly reminds a cemetery, in which survived ones didn’t still manage to put things in order yet, or are already totally incapable of doing so independently. It all forms a feeling as though this continent was recently visited either by a huge natural disaster, or not less destructive by its consequences social act of terrorism. The picture depresses and leaves extremely burdensome impression on Soul.

Fyodor :- Who are these? Some sort of monkeys?

V.V.P. :- Sir, look closer, these are Yankees!

Fyodor :- Faces covered with fear?

V.V.P. :- Their fall is coming near!

Fyodor :- Many covered with fur, no escape from own moor?

V.V.P. :- Those, who have abandoned God, doomed themselves to groan and rot.

Fyodor :- Yankees must repentance feel …

V.V.P. :- They are killing others still …

Fyodor :- Who will them accept abroad? Poor fates for now they’ve got!

V.V.P. :- All worthy ones will make through sea, what for the rest - I cannot see …

Fyodor :- Oh, what a pitiful the end! A fitting end for continent.

V.V.P. :- Capitalism made them like mad. Feodalism now welcomes, lad!

Fyodor :- They are dividing quickly so … how many “kingdoms” in the row?