THE MUSHROOMS OF DONBAS
In spring Donbas disappears in the fog, and the sun hides behind heaps of earth.
So you need to know where you’re going,
you need to know the man who can make the arrangements.
This man was a worker in the former pumping station
worn down by alcohol.
When we met, he said, “We, the workers of the pumping station,
were always considered the elite of the proletariat, yeah, the elite.
When everything fell the fuck apart, many
just put their hands down. But not the workers
of the pumping station, not us.
We organized an independent mining union,
we took over three buildings of the former plant
and started to grow mushrooms there.”
“Mushrooms?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Yes. Mushrooms. We wanted to grow cactus with mescaline, but
cactus won’t grow here in Donbas.
Read entire poem here
© 2007, Serhiy Zhadan
From: Maradona
Publisher: Folio, Kharkiv, 2007
© Translation: 2011, Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps
Publisher: First published on PIW, 2011
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