By Pavel Chichikov
Satan runs a prison camp – but you can't see him
The highest specialists prefer to be invisible
But he is there, all the same, in spirit
Where the mess hall tables line up to infinity
Twenty grams of fish, the rest is kasha
Some times blackened flesh and sometimes bone
And cabbage leaves, please count them, in the broth
Six or seven, and a mug of tea containing dust
But there's another table, crosswise to the rest
With rich stew full of fatty meat and marrow
The flesh of fellow convicts, stewpot-thick
No one can tell it's made of human beings
No one is watching, so you think, just take a plate-full
All the others eating gruel won't lift their heads
But you can have as many portions as you wish
Dear colleague – there's a spoon, a bowl, and salt
Salt it well, you'll never taste the difference
Between good pork, good beef, and something else –
There are no menus here, you choose your own
And if your faith is in the devil, eat
No one cares, no one says a word
Your hunger is like theirs but somewhat sharper
Always yours is greater than the rest
And no one sees you, Satan sees to that
You think
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