(In defense of A. Antonyuk against N. Berezhny)
A creeping snake, with neither strain nor pause,
Can choke and swallow thrushes just because.
But praise him, kick his tail, do what you suppose—
A snake will never sing the way a thrush bird sings or knows.
So where’s the secret?—There is none to find.
The question’s simple, simple is the thread:
A cold and slippery body holds no soul inside,
And where no soul is found—no song can there be bred.
I’ll read this at the discussion of A. Antonyuk’s exhibition at the Vereshchagin Art Museum.