translated into English from the Russian originals by the author
We are Sunday morning, the month of May 2022 is almost over, Saturday night, there was a soccer
competition in Paris, this morning the city was full of garbage that the fans had left everywhere, they
had even broken tree branches. A jay was lying dead in the middle of the rue du
Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
It’s market day, Place d’Aligre, but you won’t go there, it will be too crowded.
The public garden was still closed at half past seven when you passed by it.
Today is Mother’s Day.
But you don’t remember being born, and you’re almost an old man now, so these holidays don’t
make sense anymore.
You have lost all innocence a long time ago.
Soon to return to Marseille, to see the sea.
The cat is sick, I don’t think he’ll make it through the summer, he has cancer in his belly, but he still
likes to be stroked.
When I will read this poem again in the fall, he will already be dead, and I can’t help it.
I don’t know if anyone will read this poem when I’m dead, and there’s nothing I can do about that
either. The myth of posterity after death is a fantasy. There are people who like to think that other
men are geniuses, it makes them feel better about themselves. Before, people thought that they
were came from Gods, when in fact they came mostly from large carnivorous lizards.