Russian Poem collection
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EnglishVoice Age
Senior (55+)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM) North American (US Mid-Atlantic)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
imponderables propelled the Dance. The Russian Collection, written by Alex Leverage, narrated by Michael Hardy. Fate Trip Tick and three D A Night in Calcutta. In the dim, sulfuric, pale, blind sadhu finds his eyes. Lord Vishnu, whose most fantastic sound and light is poised to begin its nightly run. Street people pull up lawn chairs, argue over TV soap operas they make for tiny figurines, seekers, chatterers, barbers, urchins, bridesmaids, Taylor's butchers, street wives, temple priests and sorry weavers. Human figurines, like so many colored pool balls, ricochet ng off each other on the brake. Fierce, kinetic energy to the point where, finally, Newton's laws begin toe have effect so many streamers woven into one coat of many colors until in the eye of Kali's breath, passing fire mouth to mouth Devil, take the straggler in frenetic hunger for the feast, finally freezing like a cryogenic slowly into preordained master sketch position to prepare the evening toilets and to relieve eternal boredom where one by one, our random few dropped through Moscow nights, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up to the curb, a man and patent alligators shoes steps out from behind the tinted glass. Men in black rushed to his either side, a brightly painted girl offers up her bouquet. The man, an alligator shoes weighs his options, nods his head. Flowers are purchased. The girl is taken. An old soldier passes by ancients, medals pinned to threadbare suit. Weight down his heart. He lowers his head as if in shame for surviving so long. In enemy territory, the mother with tattered child stands quietly lost. Nearby, the old soldier takes out a crumpled ruble note from a beaten up outside pockets, stuffs it into outreached palm and shuffles hurriedly away in a miniature church Around the corner, black clad priests slap it. Their collective girth synchronize their Rolexes, begin their patent incantations, wax flames, dance on favored imitation icons. And so a minuscule human mass sways and jen, you flex to a deep melodic chorus, exercising its latest demons. In a separate world, it's oil slicks fenced off from nearby baiters, scrubbing off their toil. The City of Reduction ists breathes a sigh. The motherland is secured for another night. The just man is covered up in a shadow