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   s a m o v a r

--- H A L V A R D   J O H N S O N

say what you like, there will be trouble Anyuta was there in her hat,
wearing a dark veil he'd place the boots back in the front hall again and
set off in his bare feet dirt-cheap rotten leather nervous, irritable
downtrodden people a tangled state of affairs
we began our life together consulting about something beside them, I too
felt like a cart-horse fascinated by everything she did an insignificant
worm of this world poverty had taken root and become our local style
maintaining the proper decorum all nature, hidden in a transparent haze
I asked them only for a cup of tea the samovar, they said, was cold
a sow and her brood rooted in a pile of garbage Anyuta in her low-necked
dress approached the table and began to sing only the girls in this place
had the fresh air of moral purity I got so potted all I could do was laugh
his eyes smarted the wind made a wild, inhuman music still a child,
he knew how to sacrifice for his family the rain led to bronchitis
bronchitis kept him from working what to do with a wife who would
not play the piano drinking tea and arguing alike as two drops of water
impatiently waiting for his death amazed to see him up and about again
carrying on as always in a street full of shops, a bucket of slops
thrown upon me, perhaps by accident if the blind lead the blind
both fall into the ditch "nothing passes away," says the inscription
 [source texts: various Chekhov stories]

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