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.
«I Down the alley, the horses are led, / Their long wavy manes - all combed out, / A place full of riddles, how I lament, / Having fallen in love with this town. It’s strange to recall: the soul pined for joy, / Only gasping for breath to pull through, / And now I’ve become a playthin...»
«As with a straw, you drink the soul from me. / I know, its taste is bitter, strong and heady. / I won’t disturb this torment with a plea. / I’ve been at peace for many weeks already. Say when you’re done. It isn’t sad at all, / At last, my soul has vanished from this earth. / I’...»
«Strange boy, I’ve gone mad at last, / Wednesday, around three! / On my ring finger, a wasp / Stung me angrily. I accidentally squeezed my grip, / And it died, I think, / But sharper than a spindle’s tip / Was its poisoned sting. Strange one, is it you I’ll mourn, / And will you...»
«My legs are useless at the present, / May they become a fish’s tail! / I’m swimming, and the chill is pleasant, / The distant bridge is glowing pale. I’ll give my passive soul away, / Let it be turned to smoke anew, / And light, above the gloomy quay, / It’ll change into a tende...»