«We live, not sensing our own country beneath us, / Ten steps away they dissolve, our speeches, / But where enough meet for half-conversation, / The Kremlin hillbilly is our preoccupation. / They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers, / His words, as solid as weights of measure. / In his...»
«We live, deaf to the land beneath us, / Ten steps away no one hears our speeches, / All we hear is the Kremlin mountaineer, / The murderer and peasant-slayer. / His fingers are fat as grubs / And the words, final as lead weights, fall from his lips, / His cockroach whiskers leer / And ...»
«We live, but cannot feel the earth, / And if we speak, we can’t be heard. But wherever you hear a half-conversation, / They talk of that backwoods lout in the Kremlin. Ten fat fingers like greasy worms, / Each of his words weighs fifty pounds. His moustache bristles in cockroach laughter,...»
«Wir Lebenden spüren den Boden nicht mehr, / Wir reden, dass uns auf zehn Schritt keiner hört, Doch wo wir noch Sprechen vernehmen, — / Betrifft's den Gebirgler im Kreml. Seine Finger sind dick und, wie Würmer, so fett, / Und Zentnergewichte wiegt's Wort, das er fällt, Sein Schnauzbart...»