Lily – Vladimir Mayakovsky

Instead of writing
Smoke the tobacco air ate.
Room -
chapter in kruchenykhovsky hell.
Remember -
outside this window
first
your hands, frenzied, stroked.
Today you sit here,
heart in iron.
Another day -
kick out,
you can be, scolding.
It won't fit in a muddy hall for a long time
a broken arm in a sleeve.
I'll run out,
I'll throw my body into the street.
Wild,
go crazy,
despairing.
Don't need it,
expensive,
good,
let us say goodbye now.
Does not matter
my love -
a heavy weight -
hanging on you,
wherever I run.
Let me scream in the last cry
bitterness of offended complaints.
If the bull is killed by labor -
he will leave,
will lay down in cold waters.
Besides your love,
to me
no sea,
but you can't beg for rest from your love.
A tired elephant wants to rest -
the regal will lie in the fired sand.
Besides your love,
to me
no sun,
I don’t know, where are you and with whom.
If I tortured the poet like that,
he
I would exchange my beloved for money and fame,
and me
none are joyful ringing,
except for the ringing of your favorite name.
And I will not rush into flight,
and I will not drink poison,
and I cannot press the trigger over my temple.
I have to,
except for your look,
the blade of not a single knife is imperious.
You will forget tomorrow,
that you were crowned,
that he burned out a blooming soul with love,
and hectic days a swept carnival
will ruffle the pages of my books ...
Are my words dry leaves
make you stop,
breathing greedily?

Give at least
cover with the last tenderness
your leaving step.

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Joseph Brodsky