Письм к С. В. Потресову

No matter how the Soviet tinsel glitters
Upon the canvas of а battle piece;
No matter how the soul dissolves in pity,
I will not bend, I will not cease
Loathing the filth, brutality and boredom
Of silent servitude. No, no, I shout,
My spirit is still quick, still exile-hungry,
I'm still а poet, count me out!

(Translated by the author)

* * *

What is the evil deed I have committed?
Seducer, criminal — is this the word
For me who set the entire world а-dreaming
Of my poor little girl?
Oh, well I know that people do not love me:
They burn the likes of me for wizard wiles
And as of poison in а hollow emerald
Of my art die.
Amusing, though, that at the last indention,
Despite proofreaders and my age's ban,
А Russian branch's shadow shall be playing
Upon the marble of my hand.

(Translated by the author)

Публикация, вступительная заметка и примечания Ж. Шерона