Andrey Voznesensky When Pigs Fly, Rubber Souls

WHEN PIGS FLY

(W. Smith’s theme)

I will no longer love you, my fair
when two Sundays meet, neck and neck,

when the roses spring up everywhere,

turning blue as the blackbird’s egg.



When houses stands on their chimneys,

when a mouse commences to coo,

when hot dogs eat up human beings

and when I think of marrying you.


RUBBER SOULS

I hate you, rubber souls, you seem
to stretch to fit any regime.



They’ll give a yawning smile, stretched wide,

and, like an octopus, they’ll draw you tight.



A rubber man is an elusive rogue:

a fist gets sucked into the bog.



The rubber editor is scared of script,

the author is bogged down in it.



A rubber office I used to know

where «yes» was stretched to courteous «no».



I pity you, elastic crank,

as if erased, your past is blank.



You have erased many a passion, many a thought,

but you were happy and excited, were you not?...



Above the waist you are a cowardly man,

an ace of spade, and an unlucky one...