I'm sorry I am not a beast,
running along a blue road,
telling itself believe,
and the other self wait a bit,
we will go out with myself for a walk in the woods
to examine trifling leaves.
I'm sorry I am not a star,
running along the firmament,
in search of a nest exact
she finds herself and empty water of the earth,
nobody heard a star let out a creak,
her purpose is encouraging fish by her own silence.
Also I have a grievance against
not being a carpet or a hydrangea plant.
I'm sorry I am not a roof,
insensibly disintegrating,
macerated by the rain,
whose death is not instant.
I do not like being mortal,
I'm sorry I am inexact.
By a great great deal, believe me,
better is day particle night unit.
I'm sorry I am not an eagle,
flying over peaks and peaks,
into whose head took
a man observing bushel.
I'm sorry I am not an eagle,
flying over extended peaks,
into whose head took
a man observing bushel.
We'll sit with you o wind
upon this stone of death.
I'm sorry I am not a cup,
I detest not being compassion.
I'm sorry I am not a copse
that armed itself with leaves.
I'm effortful with minutes,
I have been terribly by them confused.
I am incredibly vexed
by being seen for real.
Also I have a grievance against
not being a carpet or a hydrangea plant.
I'm scared I am not moving
the same way as bugs bugs,
as butterflies and prams
and as bugs spiders.
I'm scared I'm moving
unlike a worm,
a worm burrows through the earth,
starting conversations with her.
The earth where are you doing,
speaks to her the cold worm,
and earth in charge of the dead,
maybe remains silent in response,
she knows everything's not like this.
I'm effortful with minutes,
they have confused me terribly.
I'm scared I'm not grass grass,
I'm scared I'm not a candle.
I'm scared I'm not candle grass,
that I was answering,
and in a trice the trees are swaying.
I'm scared that at a glance
upon two equal things
I do not notice they are different,
that each lives only once.
I'm scared that at a glance
upon two equal things
I do not see they're eagerly
trying to be alike.
I see a world distorted,
I hear the whispering of muffled lyres,
and here taking letters by their tips,
I am lifting up the word cupboard,
now I put the cupboard in its place,
it's matter's stiff dough.
I do not like being mortal,
I'm sorry I am inexact,
by a great great deal, believe me,
better is day particle night unit.
Also I have a grievance against
not being a carpet or a hydrangea plant.
We will go out with myself for a walk in the woods
to examine trifling leaves,
I'm sorry that upon these leaves
I will not see unnoticeable words,
calling themselves chance, calling themselves immortality, calling themselves foundations aspect.
I'm sorry I am not an eagle,
flying over peaks and peaks,
into whose head took
a man observing bushel.
I'm scared that everything falls into decay,
and in comparison with it I'm not uncommon.
We'll sit with you o wind
upon this stone of death.
All round like a candle the grass is increasing,
and in a trice the trees are swaying.
I'm sorry I am not a seed,
I'm scared I'm not obesity.
The worm crawls after everyone,
he's carrying unisonority.
I'm scared I am obscurity,
I'm sorry I am not fire.

1934

Alexander Vvedensky