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.
«In the brightness of autumn evenings / here is a touching, mysterious charm: / an ominous glitter, motley trees, / a light, languorous rustle of scarlet leaves, / a hazy, quiet blueness / across the sadly orphaned world / and, presaging gathering storms, / at times a gusty snap ...»
«We live, not sensing our own country beneath us, / ten steps away they evaporate, our speeches, but where enough meet for half-conversation, / the Kremlin mountain man’s our occupation. They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers, / his words, as solid as weights of measure. In his cockro...»
«We live, not feeling the earth beneath us / At ten paces our words evaporate. / But when there’s the will to crack open our mouths / our words orbit the Kremlin mountain man. / Murderer, peasant killer. His fingers plump as grubs. / His words drop like lead weights. / His laughing coc...»
«Our lives no longer feel ground under them. / At ten paces you can’t hear our words. But whenever there’s a snatch of talk / it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer, the ten thick worms his fingers, / his words like measures of weight, the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip, / the g...»