Not the lyre of a lover
I’ll carry through my land
The rattle of a leper
Will sing in my hand.
Не лирою влюбленного
Иду пленять народ —
Трещотка прокаженного
В моей руке поет.
Успеете наахаться
И воя, и кляня.
Я научу шарахаться
Вас, смелых, от меня.
Я не искала прибыли
И славы не ждала,
Я под крылом у гибели
Все тридцать лет жила.
«A simian profile / With slits for eyes; / Dumpling lips and a potato nose: / Neither a girl nor a goat. Hair like a fishtail; / No bust, more like a frying pan; / And growing from the chin — / It’s terrible, I know — a beard. Choppy gestures, long feet, / Hands twisted backward...»
«Family — a mess of acquaintances — whiners, / An insufferable carnival of fools. / From work, from friends, from rotten politics / The brain is endlessly assailed. / Take books — garbage and filth: / One cat scratches, / Another licks, breeds filth / And mews sensually... Peter ...»
«All trousers are cut in the same way, / Same goes for whiskers, overcoats, even pots. / I am the same as everyone on the street / And blend in completely at the corner... But I would not trade in my personality / To become a member of it all, or it of me — / I wrap myself entirely in in...»
«One time, having been tossed on the edge of all, / That was existing, I felt in my body / The presence of a shadow, that earlier / Was moving somewhere my life so firmly. Nobody knew, the only note-book marked that, / I'd blown out candles in the moment, / Which for the speech creation we...»