This was no affair, You were on my palmtop Like a beautiful book In a smooth dustcover. Like a boy, I fell in love, With secret trepidation I was browsing through the romance With an indecent title. There were threats, there were tears, All the same, nothing new, Mostly it was prose, Poetry was less common. Your fits of ardor And all the other devices Were stale, like the fairy tales Read to us when we were children. I was hoping in secret That you werenít dog-eared, But you, like in a reading room, Were checked out once too often.
               
I canít wait for the moment When, well overdue, Iíll hand to the next in line the book With an indecent title.
© Ilya Vinarsky. Translation, ?