Boris Slutsky
Real people have children. We only have cacti...

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.

Translated by Gerald S. Smith