My translation of Alexey Mozgovoy's poem No. 33: Philosophical Lyrics--This is what Minsk and oligarchy as anti-spirit has been killing in Russia

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Let the fog take me along, and I will

Fall among the drops of grass’s dew,

Infusing steppes’ green sprouting storms

With all that is in this man’s blood.

Let the feathery grass take me along

In the maelstrom of its silver silk,

So that, light and easy, later I can be

Its pollen dust when raised by the wind.

Let the creek carry me forth along,

And I will find my way down to the quiet Don

And, in its stream and its glittering glaze,

My anxieties will vanish—evaporate.

Let the sand of Donbass take me in at last,

So that his new grain and seed I’ll become.

For I know and I can see closer to the steppe

It is fated that I shall be –

Closer to the storm of its feathery leaves.

Originally posted by Alexey Mozgovoy on June 4, 2013, well before the war

Мозговой Алексей Борисович

Забери меня туман,
Упаду в траву росою.
Напою степной бурьян,
Каждой капелькой, собою. 

Забери меня ковыль,
В серебристый омут шёлка.
Пусть уйду потом я в пыль,
Ветер, пыль поднимет ловко. 

Забери меня ручей,
Я к реке найду дорогу.
Сотни солнечных лучей,
Испарят мою тревогу. 

Забери меня песок,
Я песчинкой твоей стану.
Видно выпал и мне срок, 
Ближе быть, к степи,
К бурьяну...