All trousers are cut in the same way,

Same goes for whiskers, overcoats, even pots.

I am the same as everyone on the street

And blend in completely at the corner. . .


But I would not trade in my personality

To become a member of it all, or it of me—

I wrap myself entirely in indifference

And fear them all decisively. . .


I curse culture! I tear off suspenders!

I trample pots! Shred overcoats!!

I’m jealous of each and every beech tree,

I live like the last fool. . .


To the forest! To the lakes, the virgin firs!

Like a lynx, I will climb their rough limbs.

I’m tired of walking along parquet floors

And looking upon painted women!


A raven will bring me Swiss cheese,

A stray goat will give me milk.

If toward evening it becomes cool and damp,

I will be covered in a blanket of moss.


There will be no newspaper articles and reports.

One can lie under a pine tree and rest a bit,

Steal sweet smelling honeycombs from a hollow elm

Or, when bored, take from the land. . .


But winter will come—I won’t hold up in camp:

I will be hungry, sire, anemic—

So I will go to Glahn, as the lieutenant’s friend:

He has a generous apartment and table.


And I will say: “Lieutenant! I—a Russian writer—

Left my passport in the capital and went into the forest,

I was as tired as a dog—believe me, friend—

as seven-hundred angry alligators!


People in the city perish like pitiful slugs,

I wanted to save my own hide.

Lieutenant! I ran from the senseless life

And came upon you along the way. . .”


Wise Glahn will say nothing to me,

But will bring game, wine, and cottage cheese…

Only Glahn will allow me to thoroughly commune,

But otherwise—I’ll run back to the city.