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.
«The rowan trees grew red, / The water turned bright blue. / The sullen moon’s horse rode / With its reins falling loose. From the gloom a blue swan, / Out of the grove, swims. / With miraculous force he’s borne / Up on his great wings. This is your land, and mine, / Ageless plowm...»
«I cried and cavorted in the spring rain, / But the storm stopped. / You get dull to me, Sergei Esenin, / Lift your eyes up... Beneath sky and trees it’s dull to hear / Your wings’ blind waves: / They can’t unf...»
«It’s nice in the briskness of early autumn / To shake one’s soul like an apple bough / And to watch the sun cut the blue stream / Like the fresh turned furrow of a plow. It’s nice to drive out from one’s body / The white hot song like a new forged nail / As one waits for the gusti...»
«Wind, wind, o snowy wind, / My bygone life I see again. / I’d like to be a boy as blond / And fair as the flowers at the field’s rim. From myself and all this life I’d like / To die while a sheep herder’s horn blows. / In my ears the ringing of cowbells sticks / Drifting through...»