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.
«We never know what will be / With words we utter solemnly: / Obey compassion to entrust / The holy gift directing us...»
«The echo of the word we place / Escapes our best anticipation, / And we receive appreciation / As we receive the blessed Grace.»
«We cannot guess the way of word / In real world, how it'll return, / But we are sympathized a lot, / A lot we gain the grace of God.»
«It's not given us to foretell / how our words will echo through the ages, / but sympathy is given us / as grace is given us.»