Take care, my Pushkin, mighty organ of the earth!
And you, the sea’s depth, and you, Odessa clouds!
I’m a guest here with you, and I’m glad to see you all.
Don’t be angry at my laughter: I’m still so young.
A husked boulevard. Puddles bubble in a muddy suspension.
And Pushkin on a pillar – swims into the grime as though into a harbor.
Where are you going, wait! – he doesn’t want to speak.
Below the howl of a siren, and the sea surges.
It’s the grateful sons of an ungrateful Russia who
erected him... with his back to the forces of nature.
Stand sideways to the people, to the multitudinous squares;
the Lord will forgive the poems and even the downpour of epigrams...
Ah, the sea and the poet! Who doesn’t fear you!
The black wrath of freedom. The luster, the tempering, the steel.
It’s good to be a poet: when you die – they install you sideways,
turned away from freedom, so the people won’t be able to recognize you.
1920