That’s, I’m sure, a vampire
Gnaws on bones, bloody-lipped.
—A. S. Pushkin. “Vurdalak,” Songs of Western Slavs
(Это, верно, кости гложет
Красногубый вурдалак.
—А. С.  Пушкин. “Вурдалак”, Песни западных славян)

What’s in the mirror that you see?
No bloody fangs, which would be fitting:
you feed on corpses of your victims.
You make them as you drink your tea.

You are no ghoul from fairy tales:
there’s been no one that’s been as horrid.
This is your time. But see, before it,
There were some others, and they failed.

One placed a bullet in his brain.
The other choked on his vomit.
The end is near. You postpone it:
you’ll murder more—but that’s in vain.

You should have grown fangs, a horn,
a snout that you’ve almost grown,
while sitting on your trashy throne.
When you are dead, no one will mourn.

About the Author
Michael Vanyukov holds a Ph.D. in genetics and is Professor of Pharmaceutical Sciences, Psychiatry, and Human Genetics at the University of Pittsburgh. He immigrated in the US as a refugee from the Soviet Union over 30 years ago. The views expressed here are his own and do not represent any institution or organization.
Related Topics
Related Posts