My poetry looks like a heavensickness.
The paradise from which I was exiled
is locked up tight. Nor luck, nor mental quickness,
nor tractable iambuses, nor wild,
limped on their right leg trochees, nor bad English
(oh, those “which” and “that” I can’t distinguish,
or, say, the tenses. What a hellish tongue!
Sometimes I wish I died when I was young),
nor Russian, my insane experimenter
and faithful servant (though, some dura'ki*
find it's not true) – that’s not enough to enter,
and all I really need is just a key.
Alas, I haven’t. But through the keyhole
I see footprints of angels on my soul.
* (rus.) fools
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