Dans mon rêve, je suis avec mes amis, mais nous sommes perdus dans un tunnel sombre. - Yves

This is the first time Kiril has ever worked with video. Kiril does not speak English. This is a short called A Man Arrived. It is dedicated to Kiril’s mother who sold him. Kiril has written many poems. He wrote this one especially for his video.

[translated by Boris]

Поэзия Кирилла

Для мамы.

Однажды человек пришел.

Мама плакала.

Она продала меня.

У нас не было денег.

Мне пришлось бежать. Я бежал.

Человек поймал меня.

Нехороший пьяный человек.

Я ненавидел его дыхание.

Они  делали плохие вещи со мной


Ты продала меня. Я побежал быстро.

Дети бегут от мужчин

Бегите, дети,

Спасайтесь! Это было зимой.

Моя мать продала меня.

Сейчас я хочу уснуть

И замерзнуть в снегу.

До этого времени все было покрыто льдом.


Poetry by Kiril

for mom

One day a man came.

Mom was crying.

She sold me.

We had no money.

I had to run. I ran.

The man caught me.

This man was mean

and drank vodka.

I hated him breathing. They

do bad things to me, mother.

You sold me. I ran hard.

Children running from men

arriving. Run, children,

escape. It was winter

My mother sold me.

Now I want to sleep

frozen in the snow.

Until recently, it's been ice.

A MAN ARRIVED by Kiril (Smash Street Boys/ Show Me Your Life)



Consultation with the darkness unwilling to sell my soul even for love © Carolyn Srygley-Moore

 I am avoiding you, even you, whom I love desperately.

I have asked assistance from the darkness // with this helplessness I feel.

Short sentences do not avail me. The gills of fish. The primate thumb.

Flashes of orange light in the sky show me only that I do not know

a path of certainty. I am married to bats, scallop winged, leathery.

I am married to the yellow moth- lantern that defines them.

     I can teach my daughter nothing about swimming, for I have

so many poor habits. My stroke is strong, but imperfect.

I ask the darkness. The island obeah, with his dolls & pins. His taboos.

We duck into the barroom doorway, though I do not drink

any longer. I smell the scotch as the campy vampire

smells blood on the neck. He chants

they love you they love you they love you

& the snow begins to fall in tremulous

arcs & lines & the white snow begins to fall

& I open my mouth & lean backward

in an oceanic asana & I let it melt where thirst matters most

upon the breast where the heart strokes

as the butterfly strokes in glacier pockets of air.


I can teach her to float on her back, looking at suns.

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