Promulgate to us dear father What is this thing called Frother.
Do not confuse, my sons The day of the end and the knight of spring.
Blue, terrible and grizzled is Frother. I am your angel. I am your father.
I know its cruelty, My death is close at hand.
Bald spots gape on my head, Empty patches. I am bored.
And should my life drag on, Neither a falcon nor a tuft of hair
Will remain anywhere. This means death is at hand. This means hello boredom.
But that wasn’t our question,
Our thoughts gestate like mansions.
Won’t you tell us dear father What is this thing called Frother.
And the father exclaimed, “The prologue!
In the prologue what matters is God.
Go to sleep, sons.
There are dreams: watch some.”
"Frother" Based on Alexander Vvedensky poem "Frother"
Directed by Alexander Fedulov
Let the gray-haired people Sing and dance.
Let them wave their arms Like a man.
On a placid, beautiful day You diminish in breath.
How soon I will apprehend The perfection of death.
The horses rush like waves, Hooves clop.
The steeds are dashing and ablaze, Vanished they gallop.
But how to clasp their abatement, And are all of us mortal?
What can you tell me, O moment Will I understand you?
The bed stands before me, I’ll softly lie,
And under the wall I’ll feign to be A flag and gladioli.
Sons, sons. My hour approaches.
I’m dying. I’m dying.
Don’t ride in coaches. The end, it comes.
Please do tell us dear father What is this thing called Frother.
Maybe Frother is a tether, A teether or a head in feathers.
I can’t understand O father Where is Frother? What is Frother?
O I wallow in pillows!
Father, I pallow in willows. You must not die Before you ply reply.
O Frother, Frother, Frother. O father, father, father.
Dolls and dunce caps have burned out, I’m a boat a boat a bout.
Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow. It is the dew of death, that’s what Frother is.
I saw, as you’d have it, a rose, This tedious petal of earth.
The flower apparently was Thinking its last thoughts
It caressed the neighboring mountains With the terminal breath of its soul.
Princesses floated and stars Above in the heavenly pall.
As my sons went away And my horse like a wave
Stood and clacked its hoof, The moon yellowed nearby.
O flower convinced of delight The godly hour is at hand.
The world comes to like the dawn And I have gone out like a light.
And he hasn’t even answered our question.
Pillow pillow Tell us rather What is this thing called Frother.
I know. I know!
Then answer, Wherefore speak you not.
In vain are you a widow, O comfortable pillow. Reply.
So answer.
Some fire here! Fire!
I am going to hang somebody, I can just feel it.
A little patience, Then maybe I’ll answer all your questions.
I’d like to hear you sing. Then maybe I’ll grow loquacious.
I’m so exhausted. Maybe art will give me a second wind.
Farewell, pedestal. I wish to hear your voices set to music.
Big brat brother Brutus, A marvelous Roman. Everyone lies. Everyone dies.
Sang sank skittered stole A lonely tightrope walker That acrobat. What gall.
The stallion In the netherworld Is waiting for the clarion.
You’re waiting to hear what the father will blather. Will he or won’t he explain what is Frother.
O Lord I am a disconsolate widower, A sinless singer.
Papa, the end is near. I see a crown form above your ear.
Your breathing is tall and austere,
You’re already a popsicle.
If only I were a priest Or a deceased released,
I would have visited your court, Almighty Lord.
Where is the key to my mind? Where is that ray of light, The sudden generosity of winter?
You see no eyebrows father, How barren are the bloodlines of Frother.
Look: a gun barrel! It’s so big and unsterile!
Where? How? Teach us—
Everywhere. Like finches.
The last fear, After mass Was past, Crumbled to dust.
The gates of heaven then flew open. And a nanny came out of the barn.
The nanny had two legs, one after another. She hung in the room mercilessly smothered.
And this again reminded everyone of their eternal question, namely: What is this thing called Frother?
Over your cradle...
drool runs down your lips
And the moon lives. Over the grave, over the pine
Sleep and repine. Better not rise.
Better pulverize.
Hey there blacksmith jacksmith,
We’ll sleep in your forge. We’re all prisoners.
Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow.
It is the dew of death,
that’s what Frother is.
Dear God
the sons could have said if only they could.
But we knew that already.