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 There is Bukashkin, our neighbor, 
 in underpants of blotting paper, 
 and, like balloons, the Antiworlds 
 hang up above him in the vaults.
Up there, like a magic daemon, he smartly rules the Universe, Antibukashkin lies there giving Lollobrigida a caress.
The Anti-great-academician has got a blotting paper vision.
Long live creative Antiworlds, great fantasy amidst daft words! There are wise men and stupid peasants, there are no trees without deserts.
There're Antimen and Antilorries, Antimachines in woods and forests.
There's salt of earth, and there's a fake.
A falcon dies without a snake.
I like my dear critics best.
The greatest of them beats the rest for on his shoulders there's no head, he's got an Antihead instead.
At night I sleep with windows open and hear the rings of falling stars, From up above skyscrapers drop and, like stalactites, look down on us.
High up above me upside down, stuck like a fork into the ground, my nice light-hearted butterfly, my Antiworld, is getting by.
I wonder if it's wrong or right that Antiworlds should date at night.
Why should they sit there side by side watching TV all through the night? They do not understand a word.
It's their last date in this world.
They sit and chat for hours, and they will regret it in the end! The two have burning ears and eyes, resembling purple butterflies.
A lecturer once said to me: "An Antiworld? It's loonacy!" I'm half asleep, and I would sooner believe than doubt the man's word.
My green-eyed kitty, like a tuner, receives the signals of the world.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation

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