November 7, 2007
To Rumen Leonidov
There is still no electricity.
There are no frog drumsticks either.
There is no radio – in postman’s bags
News start stinking of cheese,
Coffee sleeps in cobras’ feet
And bean-dreams of international meetings.
There are no Japanese.
There are no other Japanese either.
It’s hostile, it’s illiterate, it’s raw, it’s peasant.
…And the Earth, on her back in the space
whirls Saturn’s rings.
And Mars – the best of jugglers –
Tosses Phobos and Deimos;
And Jupiter, and Mercury
with future commercial legs
follow their interested orbits,
And Venus – unsung and naked –
dips into her one hundred percent moisture.
And not a single poet to shoot.
…It was a night and grandpa was telling me:
“When there are no poets born
Poetry becomes a linguistic problem.
Now go to sleep
For early tomorrow
Progress will come!”