Sailor, my dear, my heaven-made spouse!
There is one thing that I beg of you, man:
Kiss any strangers, and give them your flowers,
love many women. But, pray, don’t love one.

These are the words that I send with my letter,
piercing land after land they will moan;
stay there as long as you wish, and you’d better
love all the countries, but, pray, don’t love one.

Give me a whistle — when tired of roving.
Held in sweet bondage, or about to drown,
play with your life as you wish, when you’re roaming,
but don’t ruin ours because it is one.



Poems by Andrei Voznesensky

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