Skill of Holding a Pause Vera Polozkova Translation

So we matured, mama, but, it feels that we are still ever-lasting and it seems, That time smoothes, levels out our movements but it sharpens our faces and our whims We’re no longer gun powder and honey, but stone paving as in Europe we’ve seen Beautiful children, mama so you know, already have new beautiful children. We like taking pictures of them in favorable light under shady linden Life’s smarter than the living, that’s clear after one third of the way to the pilgrim. All that scared me in childhood is now like a fat guy with ukulele absurd, Even indicators of future decay are clear and law-governed, not blurred It’s scary not to die young, mama, but, you see, it tourns out I’m not that rare bird. I am now everything in one – Jackie Chan and Santa Claus, My occupation is nothing, mama, but structuring chaos. All I’m developing, mama, is the skill of holding a pause. I am no zero mark anymore, no young ovary, no cheeky nestling It’s “young ovaries” now that stare at me with jealousy as if I am king. In simple people I give rise to hatred, to complicated jealousy clings. What about happiness, mama? It is all result of seductives or toxins. For me it is this feeling I get at night in a taxi quite often, it seems, When crossing forty second and tenth street, direction from Kabatas to Taksim. It’s rare that mortality and replaceability is felt to this extreme. Sometimes I feel as a commander in exile, as weed among grass family found. In a world where face is all that matters, all that interestes me is the inside out. Drummers of existence are playing with sticks, waiting for a sign – for someone to shout. Nope, love could not have saved me from this state – in fact it didn’t, it stalled. I won tons of beauty here hence it’s natural that I’m fused, come on! But I’ll sit on your lap, empty to glorify it century long.