The end of the belle epoque (Êîíåö ïðåêðàñíîé ýïîõè, Èîñèô Áðîäñêèé, íà àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå)
Cause the art of poetry has to be via words,
I am one of the deaf, bold and gloomy ambassadors
Of the second-rate power, connected with this one,-
And without desire to violate own brain,
I wear myself and go down to the newsstand
To buy evening newspaper.
Leaves are gone with the wind. Low light of old lamps,
And the winning of mirrors in these gloomy parts,
With the puddle’s support generates the effect of completeness
Even thieves stole orange disturbing the backside of mirrors,
Though the feeling with which you can see your own appearance:
I’ve forgotten these feelings
In these gloomy parts everything’s optimized for the winters:
Sleeps, prison’s walls, coats and new-year-like Whiteness
Of bride’s dress, drinks and sweep hands
Sparrow jackets and the dirt for all alkalis
Puritan manners. Linen. And in hands of violinists
Wooden warm-pads.
This part is immobile. Imagining the total scope
Of the iron and lead will crazily give a nod
Whip’s and bayonet’s regime of the past will be remembered
But the eagles sit on the iron like magnet
Here even the chairs which are made of the cane
By the bolts and screws are kept
Only fishes in sea know the price of the freedom; but their
Silence force us out of creating
Our labels and pools. And the space is disfigured with pricelist.
Time’s created by death, needy bodies and things,
In fresh veggies it looks for the features of both.
Cock is hearing courants.
Life in epoque of the journeys, if you have lofty temper,
Is regretfully hard. Removing beauty’s attire,
You see what you look for instead of the wonderful wonders.
And it’s rather far from Lobachevsky is strictly observed,
But spread world has to get narrow wherever, and
There’s the end of the promise
Maybe map of the Europe was grabbed by authorities’ spies,
Maybe fifth of the six resting world’s parts
Is too far. Or some beneficent elfin
Do the magic with me, and I can’t run out of here,
Wouldn’t like to call servant, pour out church wine by myself,
Scratch the kitten…
Or the bullet in head, like in place of mistake by decree,
Or go out like New Christ from here by sea.
And how not to mix up if you’re drunk and cra zy of fre eze
Train and ship: anyway you’ll not crawl into a hole:
Like a boat on the water, there will be no track on the rail
By the train’s wheels
What is written in papers in column «Courtroom reports»?
The sentence is carried out. And even cornballs
Will see through the glasses with rim made of stannum
Man which is lying face down near wall made of bricks,
But not sleep. Cause there is a right of the sleeps
To strain holey dome.
That epoque’s vigilance originates
From the times which are not able in common blindness
To distinguish fallen by bullet from fallen bullet.
White-eyed Chuds would not like to see something else but death.
There’s a lot of the plates, but nobody to turn upside down the tables
To hold Rurik responsible.
That epoque’s vigilance is vigilance to the things of dead end.
It’s not time to let thoughts flow over the wood,
But with spit on the wall. Not to waken the prince – dinosaurs.
For the last string, oh, I can’t draw the feather of bird
Waiting axe is the fate of innocent head,
Waiting green laurus .