From the book A Portrait without Resemblance
…
Should I tell you about all the fools of the world
Who the fate of the entire humanity hold?
Should I tell you about all scumbags, dead clowns,
Who pass into history in white crowns?
But what for?
……….It’s quiet under a Paris bridge,
I don’t care if after me there’s the deluge.
*
What about people? What do I need them for?
Here is a man pulling a bull,
A saleswoman with legs and breasts galore,
a kerchief, thighs round and full.
Nature? For what reason?
Snow or rain or heat is mingling
With angst in any season,
Like a mosquito’s jingling.
There are entertainments thereof:
Fear of poverty, torture of love,
A sweet lollipop of art, and besides,
There is, finally, suicide.
…
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…
With this inhuman fate
How can one argue? How can one fight?
This is mirage, illusion.
Still this blue evening yet
Is my domain, possession.
And the sky is red between the trees
While it is pearly on the sides…
In lilacs the nightingale still whistles.
The ant crawls in grass between the thistles–
And someone needs it otherwise.
Someone might even think it’s fair
That I can still breathe in this air
That my old-fashioned coat
Is soaked in sunset on the right
And drowned in stars on the left side.