«We live without feeling the country beneath us, / our speech at ten paces inaudible, and where there are enough for half a conversation / the name of the Kremlin mountaineer is dropped. His thick fingers are fatty like worms, / but his words are as true as pound weights. his cockroach whisk...»
«We live without feeling our country’s pulse, / We can’t hear ourselves, no one hears us, / If a word is uttered by chance, / Kremlin highlander is remembered at once. / Like worms his thick fingers are fat, / His words like pound weights are correct, / His cockroach moustache is full...»
«We live, not sensing our own country beneath us, / Ten steps away they dissolve, our speeches, / But where enough meet for half-conversation, / The Kremlin hillbilly is our preoccupation. / They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers, / His words, as solid as weights of measure. / In his...»
«We live, deaf to the land beneath us, / Ten steps away no one hears our speeches, / All we hear is the Kremlin mountaineer, / The murderer and peasant-slayer. / His fingers are fat as grubs / And the words, final as lead weights, fall from his lips, / His cockroach whiskers leer / And ...»