Boris Slutsky
The cocked-arm gesture of the philosophical lyric is worth a ruble...

The cocked-arm gesture of the philosophical lyric is worth a ruble,
its punch is worth a penny, it’s small.
Perhaps we should make do with the empty and contemptible
— what’s its name? — soul?

Let the philosophers do their philosophizing.
Let them look for ways
to persuade the world to go on putting up with things.
We should just sing a little song.

In a song there is everything: object, subject,
existence and consciousness, of course.
Who could divert it from its ultimate aim,
knock it off its path?

And while the clumsy earth
makes its way through starry dust
the world’s tra-la-la
triumphs over the world-wide abyss.

Translated by Gerald S. Smith