I foolishly exchanged a ruble for a dollar,
My native Russian language for an English racket.
Though fake-grimly sparkles my dog-word-collar,
I can feel thorns of misery under my worn out jacket.
I take and take handfuls of English collocations
From dictionaries and other poet's lyrics,
Without putting back not even a quotation,
Without thinking of the language limits.
English syllables sting my palate whilst I make a bite.
I'll drink the vinegar in great sips as much as I can stand.
And I believe, the Russian goldfinch sang it right:
Quench-thirsting by a foreign word isn't possible for a dying man.
To Osip Mandelshtam
© Copyright: Podrostok, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117121900727
Свидетельство о публикации №117121900727
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