Страна : Голландия
Кирилл Сазонов. Мне 26 лет, родился в маленькой , дождливой Голландии в русско- говорящей семье. Трижды поступал в высшие учебные заведения – интернациональный бизнеc и экономика ,международные отношения и программирование, – и также регулярно бросал учебу. Основал фирму – виртуальная платформа криптовалюты. Разрабатываю свою видео-игру, пишу прозу стихи и музыку. Короче, еще молодой, предприимчивый человек без официальногo подтверждения в виде диплома. Пожалуй и все, но мне кажется, что прочитав мои стихи, рассказ и роман, вы больше узнаете и поймете меня.
Country : Netherlands
My name is Kyrill Sazonov. I am a 26-year old writer, born in the rainy Netherlands to a Russian-speaking family. During my life, I’ve made a few turns here and there, studying at three different faculties: International Business & Management Studies, European Studies & IT, dropping out of all three. Eventually, I found a firm that specializes in using a stable cryptocurrency (stablecoin) as an escrow method. I am currently also developing an online video game, while casually writing prose, poetry & music. In short, I’m a young, maverick entrepreneur. I hope that after reading my poetry, novel and story, you will find more about who I am as a person and what I stand for.
Отрывок из сборника стихотворений
Sinful Sonnet
Courtesans and concubines
pristine ladies on neon signs
performing with pink panache
indulging in pleasures of flesh
a rose-scented soft temptation
invoking desire and infatuation
crimson lights and skin like satin
inviting to a realm of forbidden passion
where sirens and succubae
sing songs that satisfy
docile demons and superficial saints
peculiar clients with specific tastes
no judgements in our den of delights
only leisure and unforgettable nights
Wanderlust
Remind me of the sea kissing the coast of Algiers
Where tides are soft and winds but fierce
On a road to Morocco, past the strait of Gibraltar
Where the trip to Casablanca didn’t halt her
From Alps nestling Basil to Atlas holding Jbel Ayachi
In a plane over the Alboran and Tyrrhenian Sea
Spring in Minsk before summer in Warschau
Soar through Kiev’s autumn, then winter in Moscow
Blink the Sahara’s eye towards the Aral Sea
To dust and draught in sands of bygone glory.
Shelter found eastward in the marble oasis of Ashgabat.
And brief respite in cloudlike white akin to Masqat.
Like Rome or Florence, his Coliseum or her Sistine
Never to stay long, Mozambique followed Argentine
Unchained from Peru and the Chilean hills of Santiago
To concrete spires sprouting out of Seattle and Chicago
A skyline lute’s string oscillates into an oriental song
Its harmonious melody chased from Beijing to Hong Kong
Though I might’ve confused myself with Singapore,
Not Bangkok nor Seoul, but possibly Kuala Lumpur.
Holding your parting gift from the vineyards in Roubaix;
A vermillion memory engraved by your lips’ embrace
Leaving my wayward wish that you’ll snap free from peregrine
So I can finally open up my arms for you at the gates of Berlin.
— Black Hole
born from a cosmic cradle,
collapsed under the gaze
of a million demanding stars.
dreams and expectations crushed
by bending their rules of nature.
Now it all revolves around me,
not them, us, nor you,
only I in singularity.
— King of the Hill
He sits on a throne;
a green and mounded hill.
a velvety yellow crown
on a cat without teeth.
Waves are gently blown
on a carpet of grass,
in the palace of nature.
as if a royal envoy
brings forth a message:
«summer has come,
king Dandelion.»
— Game of Fate
Every week a card is played,
four suits as seasons tell;
seers seeking signs and omens
for soldiers gambling their lives.
Summer hearts bleed for a king’s ideology,
red queens of winter and blood diamonds.
Spring spades digging trenches and graves of war
for infantry boys, bearing
black clubs, lances and rifles as they fall.
causality cuts lines in fate,
making nobles and commoners equal
in the games of war they partake;
All play with the hand they’re dealt,
only some see the deck shuffled again.
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