All trousers are cut in the same way,
Same goes for whiskers, overcoats, even pots.
I am the same as everyone on the street
And blend in completely at the corner. . .

But I would not trade in my personality
To become a member of it all, or it of me—
I wrap myself entirely in indifference
And fear them all decisively. . .

I curse culture! I tear off suspenders!
I trample pots! Shred overcoats!!
I’m jealous of each and every beech tree,
I live like the last fool. . .

To the forest! To the lakes, the virgin firs!
Like a lynx, I will climb their rough limbs.
I’m tired of walking along parquet floors
And looking upon painted women!

A raven will bring me Swiss cheese,
A stray goat will give me milk.
If toward evening it becomes cool and damp,
I will be covered in a blanket of moss.

There will be no newspaper articles and reports.
One can lie under a pine tree and rest a bit,
Steal sweet smelling honeycombs from a hollow elm
Or, when bored, take from the land. . .

But winter will come—I won’t hold up in camp:
I will be hungry, sire, anemic—
So I will go to Glahn, as the lieutenant’s friend:
He has a generous apartment and table.

And I will say: “Lieutenant! I—a Russian writer—
Left my passport in the capital and went into the forest,
I was as tired as a dog—believe me, friend—
as seven-hundred angry alligators!

People in the city perish like pitiful slugs,
I wanted to save my own hide.
Lieutenant! I ran from the senseless life
And came upon you along the way. . .”

Wise Glahn will say nothing to me,
But will bring game, wine, and cottage cheese…
Only Glahn will allow me to thoroughly commune,
But otherwise—I’ll run back to the city.