along the street the outcast pauses
his earring makes him special
a useless worker of the disgraceful
he’s stood at the crossroads of  years
the traffic light contains three colors
but none give him permission to cross

I live OK and work at present
as word processor (from the root “cess”)
and in the process wander
or hold court with whacked youngsters
you just can’t get used to death
you drain your life toiling for some treasure
you’ll die like a darling you won’t protest
and out of decorum pretend to see the light

die just like the rest of us
and to your relatives’ delight
agonizing confess you know
where to find the gold
Translated from the Russian

More Poems by Sergey Gandlevsky