Vladimir Mayakovsky
Paris. (A little chat with the Eiffel Tower)

By thousands of tyres outworn.
By millions of feet out-trod.
I furrow Paris —
so terribly alone,
it’s terrible — not a soul,
terrible—nobody.
Around me —
autos fantastise a dance,
around me —
whistling water, fountain-poured
from beastfish snouts —
still left from Louis Quinze.
I enter
La Place de la Concorde.
I wait,
till upraising its fretted peak,
tired from the trailing houses eyeing,
coming to meet me —
a bolshevik —
Eiffel rears from the clouds defiant.
S-s-s-sh..,
tower,
stalk quietly!
That moon’s a guillotine leer.
(I lowered to a whisper)
Listen to me
(and murmured
buzzzzz
in her
radio-ear.)
I’ve agitated all things made and built.
We only want to know —
if you are agreed,
tower —
do you want to head a revolt?
Tower —
if so
we elect you to lead!
It’s not for you —
model genius of machines —
here
to pine away from Appolinairic verse.
No place for you —
this place of degradations.
This Paris of prostitutes,
poets,
bourse.
The Metro’s agreed,
the Metro’s with us —
they’ll spit out
from riveted tunnels
the crowd —
and wipe and scour
from their walls
with blood
placards-de-luxe of perfumes and powders.
They’re convinced —
why should they stream and clatter
with first-class cars for the rich.
They’re not rabble!
They’re convinced:
our adverts
suit them better,
simple posters
and placards of struggle.
Tower —
don’t fear the streets!
Or else
if the streets won’t release the Metro —
the road-beds are welded by rails.
I’ll raise up the rails to revolt.
You’re afraid?
Tractors in flocks will defend you.
Still afraid?
To our aid will come Rive-Gauche.
Don’t be afraid!
I’ll persuade the bridges too.
It’s not so easy
to swim across!
The bridges,
maddened by the traffic hell,
will rise from the river banks of Paris.
At the very first call
all bridges will rebel —
and dash passers-by on their buttressed piers
Every thing uprears.
Things are beyond endurance.
In fifteen
maybe twenty years,
strength dissolves,
steel flabbies,
and one of these nights
things
will go
to Montmartre
and sell themselves.
Come, tower,
to us!
There —
you’re more needed.
Steel-shining,
smoke-piercing,
we’ll meet you.
Come to us.
You’ll be more tenderly greeted
than our first love of loves.
Come to Moscow!
Moscow is spacious.
Everyone
will have you in their street!
Everyone
will cherish you.
A hundred times a day or so
we’ll clean your steel and copper like the sun.
Let that city of yours,
Paris of dandies and dudes,
Paris of yap-yawning boulevards,
let it end the same, in old Boulogne woods,
and museums, an all-in cemetery Louvre.
March forward
those four mighty paws endowed
and clamped by the blue-prints of Eiffel,
In our broad sky let your tall brow be radioed,
that even our red stars will get an eyeful!
Decide, tower —
all around you revolts are
shattering from head to foot old Paris!
Come to us!
to US, to the U.S.S.R.!
Come on. Let’s go —
I’ll
get you a visa!

Translated by Herbert Marshall