Mayakovsky

(from his last notebooks, translated by Frederick Seidel):

She loves me? She loves me not?

I wring
My hands and scatter the broken-off fingers.
Like petals you pluck from some
White litlte flower along your way.
You hold them up to the breeze,
They’ve told your fortune.
They drift off into May.

Though
Now a haircut
Lays bare thorns of gray,
Though my morning shave shows me
On the bib the salt of age,
I hope, I believe

I will never weaken.
Never be caught
Showing good sense.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s