The poems after poems, they look like poems
and not like poems
there is a smell of threadbare skin from them
of heated metal - well, so what,

not write anymore? You'll die of boredom!
They will put a stone with the inscription: "Passer-by,
stop at this grave,
it is all rotten, and for the appeal "O Lord"

there is no strong rhyme, neither skillful hand,
neither opened mouth - so at least close the eyes".
In the distance, Chechens and Aztecs rumble

and here it is white and quiet as in a chemistry —
one moment vials tinkle on the counter,
another, a coin slips and rolls

across the tiles - but where to?! It landed on head
in the corner where the glory where the victorious thunder
rattle in verses in season and out of season

Translated from Russian by Tatiana Bonch-Osmolovskaya