Vladimir Mayakovsky
And, Nonetheless

The street collapsed, as a syphilitic’s nose.
The river — drivelling voluptuousness.
Casting off their garments until the last leaf,
the gardens lay obscenely spread in June.

I went to the square,
put on a burnt quarter
on my head, as a red-headed wig.
The people are afraid — from my mouth
an unchewed scream is kicking its legs.

But no one shall judge me, no one shall bawl me out,
As for a prophet, they shall cover my path with flowers,
All of those, with collapsed noses, know:
I — am your poet.

Your last judgement frightens me as a pub does!
Only I alone shall be carried through the burning building
by the hands of prostitutes, as a holy relic,
to be shown to god as their exculpation.

And god shall weep over my book!
Not words — but convulsions, lumped together;
And will run across the heavens with my verses
under his arm, and, out of breath, shall read them
to his acquaintances.

Translated by Erika Kleijmans