Of Russia – Vladimir Mayakovsky

Here I go,
overseas ostrich,
in feathers of stanzas, sizes and rhymes.
Hide your head, stupid, try,
a ringing burst of plumage.

I am not yours, snow monster.
Deeper
in feathers, soul, meet!
And there will be another homeland,
I see -
scorched southern life.

Heat island.
Climbed into the palm trees.
"Hey,
the road!»
Fiction is crumpled.
And again
to another oasis
view traces by the sands minutes.

Others huddle -
leave b,
does not bite?-
Others are bent into low flattery.
"Mum,
and mom,
he lays eggs?»-
" I do not know, mattress,
I should bear ".

The floors are laughing.
The streets are staring.
Cold water.
All buried in smoke and fingers,
I pass the year.
Well, take me with a grip of disgusting!
Shave feathers with a razor of the wind.
Let me disappear,
alien and overseas,
under the fury of all December.

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Joseph Brodsky