Bulat Okudzhava
Black cat

We've a doorway with a staircase,
Also known as a «back door».
In that place as in a palace
A black cat has set up store.

There's a smirk beneath his whiskers,
Darkness fits him like a glove.
Other cats are coy or frisky,
This black cat won't make a move.

As his leer gets only bolder,
He does not catch mice or steal.
Somehow we are all beholden,
Running briskly with his meals.

As the yellow cat eyes glower,
He does not demand or cadge.
Every one of us forks over,
Grateful for the privilege.

This cat doesn't issue orders,
He just sits and drinks and eats.
When he claws the dirty floor it's
Like he's clawing at our throats.

Must be that's why we're in chaos,
And the scowling never ends.
One small lightbulb might have saved us...
But we just can't raise the funds.

Translated by Tanya Wolfson