V. Mayakovsky, To His Beloved Self the Author..

Vladimir Mayakovsky, "To His Beloved Self the Author Dedicates those lines"

Four.
Heavy, as a stroke.
“To Caesar – Caesar’s, - to God – God’s”.
While someone like me
Where should belong?
Where is a promised retreat for me?

If I was small,
Like the Great Ocean, -
I would stand on tips of waves
And fawn upon the Moon with the tide.
Where can a find a loved one,
The same as me?
That woman wouldn’t rush into a tiny sky!

Oh, if I was poor,
Like a billionaire!
What is money for the soul?
There is a restless thief in it.
For an insolent horde of my wishes
There is not enough gold of all Californias.

If I would be inarticulate
Like Dante or Petrarch!
 And light up my soul to one!
And order her to burn down with my poems!
All my words,
All my love –
Is the Triumphal Arch:
Beautifully and tracelessly  will go through it
Lovers of all centuries.

Oh, if I only was
Quiet, as thunder, -
I’d whine and embrace senile earth with shiver.
If I
Would groan out with its power,
Comets would wring their burning hands
And fall down.

I would eat the nights with rays of my eyes,
Oh, if I would be
Dull,
Like the Sun!
I need very much
To feed with my shining
Emaciated bosom of Earth!

And there will I go,
Dragging my Gigantic Love.
In what kind of
Delirious,
Sick
Night,
By what Goliafs
I was conceived –
I,
So big and so useless?

1916

Translated from the originally written by Vladimir Mayakovsky in Russian "To His Beloved Self the Author Dedicates those lines" by Alina Kireeva, 2014