I am an exotic man, to put it mildly, My tastes and my demands are rather strange, I can, for instance, nibble glasses madly, And read the works of Schiller for a change. I have two "Selves" in me, two poles of planet, Two absolutely different men, two foes, When one is eager to attend a ballet The other straight off to the races goes. I donít take liberties, when I turn out To be myself, going the whole hog, My other "Self" will frequently break out Appearing as a rascal and a rogue. And I oppress the scoundrelís intrusion, My life! Iíve never known such distress... Perchance (I am so scared of confusion), Iím not that other "Self" whom I oppress. When in my soul I open up the facets In spots where sincerity should be I pay the waitresses, on trust, in assets, And women give me their love for free. But suddenly all my ideals go to grass, as Iím impatient, angry, rude and such a bore! I sit like mad, devouring the glasses, And throwing Schiller down on the floor. The hearing is on. I stand and speak austerely, Appealing to the jury, showing tact: "It wasnít me whoíd smashed the window, really, It was my other wicked "Self", in fact. Do not be strict to me. Youíd better Give me a chance, but not a prison term. Iíll visit court-rooms just as a spectator and drop in on the judges as a chum.
       
I wonít smash windows any more, distinctly, Nor fight in public - write it in your scroll! Iíll bring the halves of my split, sickly, Disintegrated soul into a single whole. Iíll root it out, bury it and quench it; I want to clear and reveal my soul. My other "Self" is alien to my nature, No, it is not my other "Self", at all.
© Alec Vagapov. Translation, 1999