I hate you, rubber souls, you seem
to stretch to fit any regime.

They’ll give a yawning smile, stretched wide,
and, like an octopus, they’ll draw you tight.

A rubber man is an elusive rogue:
a fist gets sucked into the bog.

The rubber editor is scared of ,
the author is bogged down in it.

A rubber office I used to know
where “yes” was stretched to courteous “no”.
I pity you, elastic crank,
as if erased, your past is blank.

You have erased many a passion, many a thought,
but you were happy and excited, were you not?…

Above the waist you are a cowardly man,
an ace of spade, and an unlucky one…

© Copyright Alec Vagapov’s translation



Poems by Andrei Voznesensky

Andrei Voznesensky (Voznesenski, Voznesenskii, Voznesenskï, Wosnesenski, Woznesenski)