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