V. Stolbov

They want, oh, sadness, me to drag off you
The cover, so artless one and precious,
To cut, like shaggy bushes, all my passions,
And in lace handkerchiefs pour my sore tear-dew. 

They want your gift – my long-awaited verse – 
To be exhausted behind prison’s grating.
Lost of simplicity, that is invigorating,
It’d fade, like a cut flower, of course

But this won’t do! Let actresses, the haughty,
Learn every day the deepest sighs by heart,
Dropping to boards in a way, much fair.

Soul doesn’t cut a stage from its wings dirty,
Its sadness ne’er under rough rouges hides,
And through its fall, doesn’t save a style of hair.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, February, 2003