The cult of personality is stained,
But after forty years, the cult
Of gray monotony and disdain
Persists like in the days of old
Each coming day appears lackluster,
Until it’s truly hard to bear,
It brings but photographic clusters
Of pig-like and inhuman stares.
The cult of narrow-minded thinking
Is likewise cherished and extolled,
And people shoot themselves, while drinking,
Unable to sustain it all.
Культ личности забрызган грязью,
Но на сороковом году
Культ зла и культ однообразья
Еще по-прежнему в ходу.
И каждый день приносит тупо,
Так что и вправду невтерпеж,
Фотографические группы
Одних свиноподобных рож.
И культ здоровья и мещанства
Еще по-прежнему в чести,
Так что стреляются от пьянства,
Не в силах этого снести.
«Here, in my Moscow, — cupolas shine.1 / Here, in my Moscow, — church bells chime. / And the tombstones, here, all stand aligned,2 / Tsarinas sleep there, and tsars. You wouldn’t know, but in the Kremlin, at dawn, / One breathes easier — and just here alone! / You wouldn’t know...»
«Above the city Peter had abandoned, / The church bells resonated thunder. Again, their crashing waves have swept / Above the woman that you’ve left. Tsar Peter, and you, tsar, shall be admired! / Yet, here, the bells are elevated higher. So long as they ring out from the blue — / The ...»
«Here’s a young girl, barely in bloom, / Who still does not lower her eyes, nor blush, / As I approach she gazes at me / With her dark impenetrable glance. / And if I had my way, I’d spend my whole life in Settignano, / Beside the wind-weathered stone of Septimus Severus. / I’d look...»
«That girl there, little more than a child, / Neither blushes, nor yet casts down her eyes, / But, as she draws nearer, / Observes me with a dark, inscrutable stare. / Had I the fancy for it, / I’d spend the rest of my days in Settignano; / I’d sit by the wind-torn stone of Septimus S...»