I have gone, I have left Mother Russia! All the girls I knew snivel and squeal. Now I’m sowing my seeds on some other Unfamiliar Elysian fields. On a tram in the Presnensky District Someone said: "Well, he’s finally gone. Let him carry on there with his lyrics; He’ll be putting Versailles in his songs." Right behind me I hear them discuss me: "That’s not him, go on, ask him - you’ll see." "Yes, he’s left." With their elbows they shove me And in taxis they sit on my knees. There’s my friend from the Magadan prison, My old pal from the civil war years; They make out that I write to him: "Listen, I’m so bored, Vanya; Vanya, come here." And I’ve already told them I’m yearning To come back - I was humble, I begged. That’s all rubbish! I won’t be returning For the reason that I haven’t left. I’ve got gifts for those quick to accept it, So it ends as the best movies do: There’s the Arc de Triomphe - come and get it; There’s the Renault plant waiting for you. How I laugh when my thoughts turn towards it - All this nonsense they rush to believe in. Don’t you fret, I’ve not left for abroad yet - And don’t hope, ’cos I don’t intend leaving.
© Margaret & Stas Porokhnya. Translation, 2008