O blazing Muse of pure satire!
Come forth on my inviting call!
I do not need the thundering lyre,
Give me the scourge of Juvenal!
And neither lifeless imitators
Nor hungry, gluttonous translators,
Nor rhymesters, unsatisfied,
Shall fester from my pen tonight.
Peace to the poets, poor creators,
Peace to the journal’s adulators,
Peace to the fools who have been tamed!
But rascals, you I’ll put to shame, —
Come forth you villains, don’t resist!
And everyone I’ll punished then
But if by chance one I shall miss,
Please do remind me, gentlemen!
How many faces -- shameless-pale,
How many forehands — dull and stale,
Stand here, all ready to acquire
The timeless imprint of my lyre!
О муза пламенной сатиры!
Приди на мой призывный клич!
Не нужно мне гремящей лиры,
Вручи мне Ювеналов бич!
Не подражателям холодным,
Не переводчикам голодным,
Не безответным рифмачам
Готовлю язвы эпиграмм!
Мир вам, несчастные поэты,
Мир вам, журнальные клевреты,
Мир вам, смиренные глупцы!
А вы, ребята подлецы, —
Вперёд! Всю вашу сволочь буду
Я мучить казнию стыда!
Но если же кого забуду,
Прошу напомнить, господа!
О, сколько лиц бесстыдно-бледных,
О, сколько лбов широко-медных
Готовы от меня принять
Неизгладимую печать!
«to Valentina Serova Peace will be signed and we’ll be at your door / At twelve o’clock at night, with noise and mirth, / Your humble servant, just as in the war, / And all his dearest friends — those that remain on earth. / That night I wish that you may be again / That woman who is...»
«to Valentina Serova With death an inch above my head / Upon the blackened ridge I lay / And I was grateful in my heart / That you were very far away. / And thunder was not in your ears, / And hell was not before your eyes, / And somewhere in a distant town, / A peaceful house and gard...»
«to Valentina Serova Well may I curse in years to come / The features of your face. / My love is like a cataclysm, / Transcending time and space. / There's not a friend or comrade dear / Who in the light of day / Could come into this flaming fire / And pull me clear away. / Despairin...»
«Don't weep! Above the yellow steppe / Still hangs the same late summer heat / And they, with children on their backs, / Come still, with tired and stumbling feet. No tears! And as the crowd goes by / From Stalingrad to God knows where, / Don't try to catch their downcast eyes — / You ...»