Real people have children. We only have cacti
standing there speechless and cold.
The intelligentsia, where is it rolling away to?
Learned people, where are your sons?
I have lived in an environment where there are many fewer
nieces than aunts and uncles.
And not a single Flemish painter
would daub on big breasts if he painted her.
What for? Because there came a time when she
got finicky about wiping away infant dribblings
her nipples have dried up forever,
her eyes and cheeks have started getting old.
The more books, the fewer kids,
the more ideas, the fewer children.
The more wives, tastefully dressed,
the emptier it gets in these well-lit apartments.
У людей — дети. У нас — только кактусы
Стоят, безмолвны и холодны.
Интеллигенция, куда она катится?
Ученые люди,
где ваши сыны?
Я жил в среде, в которой племянниц
Намного меньше, чем теть и дяде́й.
И ни один художник-фламандец
Ей не примажет больших грудей.
За что? За то, что детские сопли
Однажды побрезговала стереть,
Сосцы у нее навсегда пересохли,
Глаза и щеки пошли стареть.
Чем больше книг, тем меньше деток,
Чем больше идей, тем меньше детей.
Чем больше жен, со вкусом одетых,
Тем в светлых квартирах пустей и пустей.
«There is no better blossom, / Then the apple-tree in spring. / There is no better moment, / When my darling coming in. When I see him, when I hear him, / Then the everything is whirled. / All my soul is on fire, / All my soul sings a song. We would look in eyes each other, / And the ...»
«Dedicated to P. Chagin I know my talent well. / That writing poetry / Is not so difficult, I can attest. / But, poetry apart, / The love I bear my country, / Has tortured me, / Given my.heart no rest. To praise in rhyme / A girl, the stars or moonlight — / Why, anyone can do that...»
«You remember, / Of course, you remember / How I stood / With my back to the wall / While you paced the room in a temper / And many a sharp word / Let fall. You said: / It was high time we parted, / My mad life / Was torturing you. / You’d work to do and had to start on it, / ...»
«On my heart’s blood drink is no more feeding, / Those old fears of mine I now can calm. / To a teahouse I have come to heal them / With the dark-blue flowers of Teheran. Serving me himself, the tubby owner, / Keen before his Russian guest to shine. / Sets upon the table dainty bowls of ...»