• translation from Russian by Yana Kane, edited by Bruce Esrig
• russian text: https://kopilkapoetry.org/?p=752

The last time I saw Shaman was at Clear Ponds Park.
That day he was working there as usual —
he never rested anyhow.
When Shaman slept, he communed with spirits,
and when he woke up, he conversed with birds.
He knew the magic greeting for the ant
who was crawling fifteen meters away.
«Hello, brother-ant!» — «Hello, brother-shaman!»
«Bright road to you!» — «And to you, a bright path!»

Shaman did not care for the mouth harp, the kobyz, or throat singing,
could not stand ethno-pop and all mainstream music.
He had a cheap old Washburn guitar,
along with a small amplifier made in China. It was barely sufficient
for the mournful blues improvisations,
the meaning of which no one at Clear Ponds could grasp.

From time to time someone would try to give Shaman money.
From time to time Shaman handed out money,
when he reckoned that another’s need was greater.
Food and lodging appeared for him out of nowhere.
“When communing with spirits, is it strange to be human?”
people used to ask Shaman, but he responded with silence.

In the end, who knows what the hell happened.
They say Shaman was swept up when the FSB came raiding —
well, that time, when, after Alexander Gabyshev,
they arrested all the shamans at once — just to be sure.
And one old hippie from Norilsk saw, or so they say,
how Shaman was kicked in the head with jackboots time and again,
how he was dragged by the feet along the asphalt to the paddy wagon.
But the police and the National Guard, of course, give assurances
that nothing like this could ever happen
and, moreover, they have not even heard of this person,
because he had neither a passport nor a residence permit.
So, there is no way for them to accept a statement
that Shaman is missing. They will do no such thing,
because there are no instructions on how to look for a person
who, from the point of view of the law, never existed to begin with.
And by the way, who are you, yourself, and do you have a criminal record,
or access to state secrets, or relatives abroad,
or maybe you are wanted… or, God forbid, could you also be a shaman?
Hand over your documents! Come along! What is it you don’t understand here?

I swear, I will never believe a single word I hear from them.
You know, yesterday I met with the ant, our old acquaintance.
He told me about what he saw with his own eyes that evening:
clubs, jackboots, paddy wagon and the dead body of Shaman.
I trust him more than the National Guard and the police.
I will wait for Shaman to come again.

Alexey Karakovski

Born in Moscow in 1978. Studied first as a historian, then as a psychologist. Works in the field of website development and support. Guitarist, mandolin player, vocalist, songwriter - mainly on historical and geographical topics. Leader of the rock band "Proishestvie". Songs are recorded in Russian, English, Polish and German; some lyrics have also been translated into French, Spanish, Kazakh and Hebrew. Creator, and in 2000-2005 - editor-in-chief of "Tochka Zreniia". Author of a dozen books. Publications in literary magazines and art samizdat. Member of the Union of Writers of Moscow (since 2007), Moscow Union of Writers (since 2019).