It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up, it's more like high time for the lad's last nap. And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the best drives a steamroller across his chest. And the words won't rise either like that rod or like logs to rejoin their old grove's sweet rot, and, like eggs in the frying pan, the face spills its eyes all over the pillowcase. Are you warm tonight under those six veils in that basin of yours whose strung bottom wails; where like fish that gasp at the foreign blue my raw lip was catching what then was you? I would have hare's ears sewn to my bald head, in thick woods for your sake I'd gulp drops of lead, and from black gnarled snags in the oil-smooth pond I'd bob up to your face as some Tirpitz won't. But it's not on the cards or the waiter's tray, and it pains to say where one's hair turns gray. There are more blue veins than the blood to swell their dried web, let alone some remote brain cell. We are parting for good, my friend, that's that. Draw an empty circle on your yellow pad. This will be me: no insides in thrall. Stare at it a while, then erase the scrawl.
Translated by the author.
Original Russian version